


Red On You

by skerb



Series: A Little Bit of Medicine [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Angst, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Edge needs a hug, Edge referred to as Papyrus, First Meetings, Forced Confinement, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Anguish, Past Character Death, Post-Undertale Genocide Route, Pre-Relationship, References to Undertale Genocide Route, Serious Injuries, Slow To Update, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, pre-kedgeup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Edge and Sans' first meeting does not go well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings in the end author's notes.

The spray of dirt settles.

“welp. i’m sure as fuck not in kansas anymore.”

There’s weight behind those words and Papyrus holds onto it like a grounding point. The rattling breath that escapes the other monster conflicts with him. There hadn’t been any resistance, just a betrayal of utmost surprise to contrast the extreme hurt and anger that suddenly flared up in Papyrus’ soul.

He had struck without warning. It wasn’t the usual precise and cacophonous thunder of rigid lines and pointed blue bones. That’s what got to him. The moment he saw their face, all will and intent to harm had vanished in a cloud of smoke.

It doesn’t appear to matter. The one wearing his brother’s face stumbles back, a glaring pastel version of a brother he has lost ages ago. Papyrus feels his soul clench and twist with pain left buried deep inside of him, reawakened thanks to this…

This…

… 

He won’t call them ‘Sans’. Sans was dead. Has been dead for a long while. It hadn’t been too many years that it couldn’t be counted, but long enough that the wound had torn open upon seeing his face again. Papyrus feels the burn of emotion rip through him, bitter and wholly encompassing him. His anger roils within him like a silent scream of agony.

He launches another attack, aiming to incapacitate.

This time he strikes, though he hesitates once more when the other monster stumbles back, falling to one knee. They’re sweating. Their clothes are torn and red is seeping out from between their fingers. They hold their side, eye sockets narrowed and white eye lights constricted in obvious pain.

“…papyrus?”

Papyrus’ soul clenches again. He turns the pain into more anger, feeding the fire to attack the imposter that has so rudely intruded upon his territory and memory.

He doesn’t want to get close to them. He’s already gotten so riled up at the very notion of someone exploiting his pain in this way that it doesn’t take long for Papyrus to learn to keep a distance. And the other monster seems to know this.

“what’s ha-” The intruder stops mid-sentence, attempting to rise to both feet. It’s a laborious process, one that looks as though they’re weaker than they appear.

They shamble, stumbling, like one side of them is weighed down with lead. With any luck, Papyrus’ attack should have shaved them down to 1 HP, perhaps even sporting a few cracked ribs as a warning. If they were smart, they would stop now.

Papyrus has LV. It’s out of necessity; he was made for fighting. He’s respected for extracting information with just as much precision as his attacks.

So when this interloper arrived, Papyrus was shocked to his core that he was affected to the point where he could not be calm. He balls his hands into fists, leather gloves gripping against themselves as he summons more attacks - this time using Blue magic.

They fall with a strangled noise as the heavy gravity pins them down. The soul feels small and feeble, thrumming helplessly against his vice-like magic. As much as he collected himself in the span of seconds it took to ground them, anxiety is welling up inside of Papyrus’ soul, replaced with aggression.

Their appearance stops his normally collected nature. With the intruder’s second attempt to rise from the ground, Papyrus strengthens his grip on their soul, shoving them down further. A groan tore from the monster’s throat, muffled against the snow.

_ Collect yourself, Papyrus! _

“I DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE, WANDERING AROUND LIKE YOU ARE NOW. IT SEEMS TO ME THAT YOU EITHER HAVE A DEATH WISH, OR YOU HAVE COMPLETELY LOST YOUR FACULTIES. IT WOULD BE MERCY FOR ME TO END YOUR LIFE HERE.” Nothing betrays the rawness in Papyrus’ voice, but the stranger looks up as though the taller skeleton has been all but wailing. “IT  _ WOULD _ BE MERCY… UNFORTUNATELY, ONE CANNOT EXTRACT INFORMATION FROM A PILE OF DUST.”

Papyrus then summons a ring of bones, encircling his hand as he raises it into the air. With a clench of his fist, the bones speed off, directionless, until the defeated monster’s body is surrounded by them. Their eye lights remain constricted, as though evaluating just how far up the creek they are. They shudder a breath, still gripping at their side. Every exhale is touched with dust.

And yet, Papyrus hesitates. His position doesn’t allow for mercy. He is the last in a long ladder of unequivocal ruthlessness, utilitarian and precise, before Undyne. Snowdin is no longer the lawless land it once was, thanks to him. For one thing, there is a lot less senseless murder.

He’s too unguarded, too angry to think straight. He knows deep inside of his LV-tainted soul that he needs to calm down and question this intruder and why he wears his dead brother’s face.

The feeling is thick, wedged between his jaw and armour. He hasn’t brought the main attack down, hovering overhead like a looming stalactite of razors. The intruder’s eye lights never leave him, despite their obvious confusion.

That settles it. Papyrus is suddenly less sure the longer he glares back, his red eye lights slivers of pain for all the world that’s staring back at him.

He hates it. He hates that he cannot even deal a warning shot to this disgusting interloper. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Papyrus dispels the attack and instead holds onto them with Blue magic, squeezing tight for all he wants to pop the stranger like a fetid sore. The monster scrabbles at the ground, their eye lights the size of pinpricks and their soul fluttering in Papyrus’ grip like a trapped moth.

Papyrus needs answers. But he doesn’t  _ want  _ to touch them. He doesn’t even want to get near them, but he drags them, bodily, the thick entanglement of Blue magic leaving a scent to others not to screw with what he’s caught. The guard has hung back and dispersed; they know better than to interfere.

It’s a good thing he has a place for this to happen. Somewhere where he can privately go through his emotions and analyse each one in order. He hates that he needs to take a breath to calm down, enough for him to look the stranger in the face.

They’re trying to reason with him. He doesn’t hear a word, but Papyrus can feel the helplessness come off from them in waves.

It’s too raw.

It’s too real.

He pins them in place against the side of the shed with magic. Boards litter the wall in a hasty effort to keep the local brat population from engaging in larceny. It may be slightly serrated, but the impact makes the unfamiliar monster choke on an already laborious breath.

Papyrus heard the crunch. There’s no weight nor venom behind the manhandling. He’s throwing them around carelessly, but it’s not touching their HP. He’s too careful. They’re already at 1. Anymore intent to harm would be careless, and he needs answers.

The lookalike inhales a sharp breath, like the air is full of embers instead of magic and oxygen. It cuts off part way, their injured ribs likely to blame. If Papyrus is a little gentler in the way he manoeuvres them into the shed, it should not be examined for more than it is: pure coincidence.

The monster is afraid; they should be, their destination to Hotland or scattered into a hole in the corner of the shed for quick disposal if Papyrus doesn’t like what they say.

They say his name again, in a way Papyrus feels his heart plummet on every syllable.

It’s been too long since he’s heard it, full of concern and desperation. The last he heard it had been when his brother was Falling Down.

Papyrus buries the feeling, his soul flaring up anew with the red bleeding from between their fingers.

_ Phalanges. _ So, still a skeleton monster.

He advances, the aura surrounding him much like a scared animal, ready to lash out. They put up a hand in a placating gesture, eyes half-squinting through the pain.

“listen, i don’t want trouble, buddy-” They sound so unphased despite how injured they are.

Perhaps they don’t care. Papyrus can feel the twinge of annoyance and he looms down over them, summoning bones tainted red, gold, green and blue from his arsenal.

His voice is tight. He can’t speak. Not yet - not one on one. Papyrus glares them down, every footfall towards them sending the stranger back. It ires him that they don’t appear fearful, only wary.

He  _ hates _ them.

They reach the wall; by the look in their eyes, it’s like its presence surprises them. They move minutely, gauging the area around them. Then they lower their hand, bracing it on the wall behind them, and slip down its length until they are prone on the floor.

It seems that their strength has finally worn down. Papyrus stands in front of them, silently demanding answers to his questions; who are they? Are they the enemy? A spy? What do they have to gain from this? Who’s sent them? Why are they here? Why-

_ Why. _

_ Why!? _

Why did this hurt so much? Why does the reminder of his brother, living and breathing and in front of him now, pain him like no other wound?

Papyrus whirls his head to glare into the corner, unable to face them but keeping an eye on them in case they attempt to try something. They’re weak enough. They’re bleeding dust into the floorboards. He needs to calm himself, otherwise he’ll have more to clean up in the future.

Papyrus grits his teeth, sharp fangs jabbing into his mandible, grinding, hard and careless. It prickles, an anchor to hang onto as he listens to them breathe, quiet rattles poking fun at even more memories that he’s left buried.

Several moments pass, then he hears a quiet laugh. It’s the same, grating half-chuckle he’d heard often enough in the past that it fills his heart and soul with shame. It’s a good thing that the shadows of the shed hide the tears pricking at his eyes.

“didn’t anyone tell you not to grind your teeth?” they murmur, watery thick and nearly a wheeze. They gulp, a wet noise that Papyrus has heard all too often. Magically fettered, just like…

He stays quiet. Silence is his ally here. He keeps his jaw set, his red eye lights following the shadow bleeding on the floor. The laboured breathing is starting to grate on his already frayed psyche, even if he’s starting to calm after the initial LV recoil.

“sorry,” the watery apology hangs in the air like a thick and humid stench. “not used to bein’ on the receiving end of a good ass-whoopin’ since…”

The words linger. Since when?

Papyrus doesn’t care. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t  _ want _ to know this disgusting excuse for a monster.

Yet something inside of him knows better.

The monster raises a hand and immediately Papyrus flings out his arm, an attack ready and spiking through the floorboards with wild recklessness. They freeze, their eye lights so small that they’ve disappeared. Their grin is haunting this way, like the emptiness of the void is staring back at him. A ghost with a tight grin.

_ ‘It’d be a waste, we both know… and you know I’d never send you off on your own without anythin’ to remember me by, right?’ _

Papyrus leaves the undispelled attack where it is and throws himself at the door, his eyes pricking with emotion. He grabs at the handle, nearly tearing it off in the process, and leaves quickly, slamming the door behind him. The stranger can stay in the dark, illuminated by their waning magic for all he cares. He needs time.

He covers his face after a moment to regain his bearings, his soul tight in his chest and a doubt burning within his mind.

This has to be some kind of ruse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning(s) for this chapter: Edge attacks Sans while having a panic attack, typical Underfell reasoning & bravado regarding using violence as a bargaining chip, forced confinement, blood, broken bones, Sans being Sans, grieving dead family, past character death


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus makes a poor attempt at interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in the end notes

18 hours. 43 minutes. 24 seconds…

That’s how long Papyrus stays away. He can’t possibly look the other monster in the eye, seeing what he does. He can’t help but draw parallels that hurt him and Papyrus needs to calm down.

He  _ needs _ to calm down.

He’s spent the better part of the following morning ensuring that the lookalike is still in the shed. Occasionally, Papyrus will stalk out of the house, ready to engage in an interrogation that would have the little speck of a monster spilling their metaphorical guts. Yet Papyrus immediately whirls around on the porch and goes back inside after a mental stutter lasting all of forty seconds.

His living room now sports a few more holes in the walls, having vented the rage and disgust in his soul. When the dust settles, Papyrus instantly regrets his decision and busies himself with finding plaster wire and cake to fix it. He doesn’t get much further than that, though. The void and silence in his mind is pierced with the stunned realisation that somehow, that’s his brother.

Or someone who looks identical. But that’s foolish to even consider.

He rises to his feet from crouched amongst his supplies and tries to go to the shed once more. When he stops outside of the door, only silence answers from the space beyond. Tentatively, Papyrus unlocks the several locks and peers around the corner, his eyes hard and glaring.

It looks as though they’ve regained consciousness, although Papyrus is more than a little perturbed at their posture. The lookalike is sprawled, limbs half-akimbo, using the wall to support them. Their faded cornflower blue hoodie is stained with blood, torn from their previous fight, a gash in their side.

They have a glint in their eye as he starts, minutely, upon seeing them awake. There is still the twinge of pain that lingers in Papyrus’ soul, but it’s not as keen as his initial reaction.  ~~ Sans ~~ The monster regards him, their breathing still laboured and ragged. It draws Papyrus’ gaze to their mouth, all blunt teeth in a wan smirk. Not one is sharpened and dangerous, perhaps a couple of pointed canines, but there’s definitely no glint of gold. There are no scrapes nor cracks in their skull.

Their eye lights are white; it’s the infallible beacon of someone who has no LV. They’re also dull, the light weak because, Papyrus figures, they’ve bled out a fair amount, if the rusty, powdery substance smeared on the old and rotted floorboards is any indication to go by.

Their eye lights fade out momentarily. Their grin tightens a little more and Papyrus resists the urge to start demanding answers on the spot before they die. He’s filled with apprehension, its hold suddenly caught in his chest as it needles into him just how familiar they appear to be.

_ Show mercy. _

Their wet sounding laugh sounds more like a cough, wracking their body. Immediately Papyrus notes the grimace, another parallel drawn between memories and the present.

The cough brings up heartache where Papyrus feels it’s better off buried.

“did a number on me,” they mumble. It isn’t as gravelly as Sans’ voice had been; it’s smoother, oddly soothing. Papyrus wills himself to stay quiet, glaring all the while, daring them to say something stupid. “don’t s’pose you got any-” They stop and cough again, an arm slinking around their waist as though doing so would prevent jostling their injury. “ow - any food? my inventory seems to be busted-”

A flare of hatred wells up inside of Papyrus.  _ How dare they ask for food. _

Before he realises what he’s doing, Papyrus whirls around and exits the shed, slamming the door behind him. Only then does he clench his fists, wanting nothing more than to scream.

“wow, rude,” he hears from the opposite side of the door.

He grits his teeth again, the grinding sound an audible crutch as he stalks around in the snow. Apart from the interjection earlier, the more minutes that pass, the calmer Papyrus begins to feel. Eventually he even stops pacing, having worn down the freshly fallen snow in front of his house and shed into a trench.

He now stands in front of the shed’s door, listening intently. He doesn’t expect them to cooperate. Spies rarely do, though Papyrus is unsure how capable the monster is now that they’ve been disabled. And a malfunctioning inventory? This was better news, although Papyrus was loathe to drop his guard just because the intruder admits to starvation. He’s not gullible, and he’s certainly not an idiot.

Yet, he can hear crunching beyond the door. It’s different than the crunch of snow or bone, much less the crunch of wood. It’s something different, and Papyrus knows the sound intimately. He sets his jaw firm, reopening the door once more to move inside, then closes it behind him.

He’s doing better. There is no instinctive flinch this time, but it takes Papyrus a moment longer to settle his gaze on the lookalike.

Mostly in that the intruder has moved. Barely, but there is a trail of bloody dust smeared on the floorboards leading to where they are sitting now.

In the corner, grinning at him like the stupid thing had no worry in the world.

Papyrus’ jaw creaks when he hears the crunch again, this time louder. The smaller monster is eating something, stolen from the corner.

“tough times when y’gotta eat crunchies, but i’ve had worse,” they say with a veiled shudder of disgust. Or is it pain? Papyrus can no longer tell at this point. He’s too busy fighting the mental hang-up of a monster willingly eating cat food from a bowl in a place obviously made for prisoners. The fool obviously has no fear for poison nor has any sense of taste, apparently.

They bring a shaky hand to their mouth from the bowl of cat food, their phalanges shaking so much that a few stray pieces of kibble tumble out from their grasp.

“you forgot the `dogs, though.” Papyrus can’t help the flinch with another parallel. It’s as though he can hear Sans’ voice through this monster, and it’s hurting him. He had always been teased for not giving the animal enough protein. “but that’s ok. you’ve had a big day, kickin’ the piss outta me.”

“LISTEN, ASSHOLE-” It just tears from him, venom dripping from each word. The smaller monster looks genuinely startled, as though the words are a dagger and Papyrus had lunged forward with it. Maybe they see something that Papyrus doesn’t or is trying desperately to hide, since they relax. It only fuels Papyrus further, almost hissing, “I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE-”

“oh, right,” they say, as though suddenly remembering. There’s a brief hesitation, as though the monster is considering their options, weighing the perils of lying straight to Papyrus’ face. “sorry. the name’s sans-”

“IT IS MOST. CERTAINLY. NOT,” the taller skeleton seethes. There is a tightness in the back of his false throat, trying to choke him with his own words. “DO  _ NOT _ TRY TO FUCK WITH ME.”

“wow, you’ve certainly got a potty mouth,” they grouse, shifting slightly. Papyrus mistakes the movement, jumpy, and swats the air in front of him. The monster presses back against the wall, their expression tight. It’s only then that Papyrus notices the faint sheen of sweat on their skull; it’s a sign of weakness, that they’re exhausted and stupid enough to let it show. “listen, man. i’m not one for screwing around, when you’re, well…  _ you. _ and you seem to be… on edge.”

Their eyes settle on Papyrus, hidden scrutiny reading between the lines. There’s a guarded expression, one that catches Papyrus’ attention and he latches onto it. It’s slight, brief, almost betrayed. Papyrus doesn’t like the look of it but resists any reaction he has towards it. The pain he sees is different than the one sprouting from their injuries. It’s as though they gradually realise something and they sink down again, the strength drained from them.

“listen, buddy,” they murmur in resignation, faint trembles passing through their body. “i’m not really… up for fighting anymore. i’m tired, y’know? can we… call a truce?”

“NO.” The words leave him abruptly and the resulting flinch hurts Papyrus more now that he’s up close. They don’t reach for more cat food, their hands idle at their sides. Their once grey shirt is ripped, stained with matted, dusty blood.

It belatedly occurs to Papyrus that he might’ve attacked someone who was seeking refuge - to recover from their wounds. He’s not sorry, but he has regrets for a different reason altogether. Papyrus gets a familiar vision of his brother, weakened and sore, bedridden for months and reaching out to him. There’s a blank in his memory, one Papyrus tries to push away as he knows what’s coming.

It seems that he’s being asked a question. The flare-ups are wilder and more random now, without rhyme or reason. Instead of demanding answers, Papyrus is quiet, hoping for volunteered information instead while he wrestles with his innermost demons.

Yet every time the stranger opens their mouth to speak, his heart sinks when he hears the familiar tone of his brother’s voice. The emotions stall him, forcing Papyrus to keep himself checked instead of surveying the stranger, injured and bleeding in his shed.

For how much he suspects the strange monster, Papyrus doesn’t expect them to drop their guard. He doesn’t understand the familiar look of recognition, nor the nonchalant way they roll their shoulder, as though it didn’t matter after all.

“if it’s all the same to you…” they start, a twinge in their voice as they hang their head, “i kinda need to think on things.”

_ Were they honestly asking to be alone!? _

Since he’s unable to force out anything apart from curses at the stranger, Papyrus leaves them to rest, though not before grabbing the dish of cat food. He sees whatever hope that was left in the stranger’s fading eyes disappear, their body falling lax. Before he leaves, Papyrus throws a look over his shoulder, just in case they try to do something beyond their limits.

But they don’t. The stranger’s body moves a bare fraction of an inch. If Papyrus doesn’t know any better, he thinks he hears a restrained noise. It sounds too close to a sob. Clenching his teeth again, Papyrus exits the shed once more, telling himself that it was a hiccough instead. He ignores the sore feeling in his soul when he closes the door, not bothering to slam it this time. If he hears another plea with his name attached to it, he blocks it out.

The cat food is mostly gone from the bowl that Papyrus holds. If anything, it’s spilled all over the floor in the shed. He knows the cat is a fair hunter, but it does him good to mollify his softness once in awhile, in case rodents are sparse and she comes back. It’s an extra layer of solitude when she’s gone, but Papyrus has gotten used to a large house with only himself.

At least, he thought so.

 

He does something he hasn’t done for a long time. His feet carry him into the house and he doesn’t bother in removing his boots. Instead, Papyrus follows the steps up to the second floor’s landing and stops at the end of the hall. The room to the balcony is sealed but the room adjacent to it is not. It’s merely been closed this whole time.

It hurts to stand in front of it. Some days he feels like screaming up for Sans to wake up and get his lazy ass downstairs. Some days he fights with himself not to rip the door off its hinges so he can air it out. Other times, he wants to take things from the room and put them in his own, reminders that his brother was once alive so they don’t hurt as much when he trips across them unguarded.

The doorknob sticks, a memory clicking from when his brother had busted the handle a few too many times. Either he had thrown open the door one time too many, or hung off from it when he wasn’t well. Sans wasn’t good at preserving the good state of their home when he was alive, and the consequences were the proof that Papyrus had to deal with on a daily basis.

It’s one of the few times he feels like entering his brother’s room and Papyrus feels scared. It’s different now with the addition of LV, and he feels like a hopeless failure because of it. When he outreaches his hand, for a moment the gloves are gone and his hand is bloody. He flinches back in a recoil, the apparition from his past disappeared.

It had been his task to make sure that this room didn’t go empty. He had tried for so long, did every odd job, ran all over hell’s half acre to fetch ingredients needed for medicines the healer needed to concoct.

But Sans didn’t live. He hadn’t been born strong, lasting as long as he did out of sheer stubbornness despite it all. Papyrus knew it was a miracle they even kept the house, but his brother never lamented it. He was gruff and sour but Papyrus could see behind the disposition that Sans just wanted a good life for them both.

That’s why when he insisted that Papyrus-

Papyrus rubs at his face with one hand, his body trembling. The question of ‘why’ repeats in his head like a skipping record. He decides that today isn’t the day to rip open old wounds and instead goes into the closet to refill the cat dish, his movements lethargic and heavy. It’s as though his soul is revolting against him, taunting him with his brother’s memory.

It’ll be noted if he stays home, so Papyrus goes back down to replace the cat dish in the shed where Doomfanger is likely to find it. He puts it near the door so the miscreant doesn’t get any wise ideas, but from where Papyrus stands, it looks as though the other monster has either fallen asleep or lost consciousness right where he’s left them.

He locks the door after a penetrating gaze their way, just to make sure. They don’t move - there’s only the sound of shallow breathing and the faint thrum of magic in the air that smells faintly of ozone and steel. Papyrus finds he doesn’t like the smell, but there is only so much he can do for that, bar actually helping them. Supplies are scarce enough without wasting them on strangers masquerading as dead family members.

He’ll be fine. He is great and merciless and terrible, after all. Bar none, he’ll at least  _ pretend _ that everything’s fine should people enquire.

It’s the least he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: forced confinement, bleeding & broken bones, food theft, desperation, hopelessness, grieving over dead family member
> 
>  ~~....should I put the content warning for Major Character Death even if Red isn't in the story? ｢(ﾟﾍﾟ)~~ Added tag "past character death"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus doesn't not intend on giving food to his prisoner. Sans makes a bigger stain on the floor than intended. Papyrus isn't happy that he discovers his prisoner's name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in the end notes

When he’s at work, Papyrus can focus better. It’s as though there’s a switch for whatever goes on in his head that allows him to separate what’s at home from what’s going on in front of him. There are small, insignificant moments when a worried thought passes through his skull about how his charge might be faring, but it’s fleeting at best. But by the end of the evening, even the thrilled charge of a smoothly-ran day isn’t enough to keep Papyrus’ thoughts from wandering to the prisoner in his shed.

If anyone had asked (which they didn’t), Papyrus would’ve made something up on the spot; irritation from the debris falling in the Underground - things of that caliber. Nothing that would make him out to be a whiny petulant child crying over noises in the street or petty larceny, nor even the rising cost of foodstuffs lately.

He’s mostly in his head when he stalks down the beaten path in Waterfall, his armour clanking noisily. The snow hits it as he approaches the yawning opening leading back to town, the frozen specks of snow hitting his pauldrons with tinny little ticks. A fresh fall of snow greets him, and with it lies a good indication as he draws near, that no one has come snooping around his residence.

And more importantly, the shed.

Papyrus hesitates for a moment, although it’s easier to disconnect himself from the looming threat inside. It’s not what they’re capable of, but more what they could say or report back to whomever hired them. He’s still not trusting the ‘injured warrior’ schtick, so he unlocks the deadbolts and unlatches the door.

For a heart-stopping moment, Papyrus finds the shed entirely empty. His soul feels as though it’s bottomed out the other side of his armour and his eyes widen when he doesn’t see a single soul. Instead he jumps, flinging out an arm with a quickly constructed bone attack to hold at arm’s length from him when he hears a sound directly to his right. Several other splinters of bullets manifest like daggers around him, looming threateningly.

“easy,” the heartbreakingly familiar voice cautiously says, “i ain’t gonna bite you.”

Papyrus scoffs and shoots the figure at his feet a glare, moving just enough to get the door closed. Then he stands, allowing hatred to pour off from him instead of the initial grief and despair.

They seem healthier. Which is a damned shame, considering they’re stealing Doomfanger’s emergency rations. The bleeding appears to have stopped for the moment and while the monster had fallen asleep at the opposite side of the room, they still appeared exhausted, likely from moving to their current position.

They shoot him an awkward grin. It’s crooked and Papyrus can see just a hint of regret as they stare each other down. The only difference is that if his own glare was a weapon, he’d be grabbing a broom and dustpan, while the stranger’s expression is guarded like a shield, yet deeply saddened.

It takes Papyrus off guard, but not enough to shake him this time. Being around Undyne and the troops does that to him. Makes him stay on his toes, every layer of defense possible to not show weakness in front of others. Sans’ death has not made him weak. It has made him stronger, in more ways than one.

He hates that LV has done this to him, but Papyrus has no other choice.

Still, the sight of the look-alike puts him on edge, distrustful and angry. Like it’s something that can’t be shaken off. Normally he’d be able to challenge someone he was interrogating, but so far Papyrus has done little else than glower at the injured monster with an air of grievous impatience.

“you seem kinda…” they start, but then trail off. Wise idea, considering Papyrus bristles immediately, his body hot-wired to be offensive in the prospect of unknown danger. Their eyes settle on the taller skeleton, taking in Papyrus’ appearance as though mentally calculating something. Then they just sigh, their shoulders slumped in defeat. The breath is stuttered, pain laced between. “guess y’got questions, huh. put your bullets away. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

Papyrus doesn’t know if it’s any consolation, though the tired slip of the stranger’s cadence is enough to wrench pity from his tired soul. He studies them, making himself frown for fear of showing any other emotion. He stays quiet, shaking off all but one construct, the one he’s holding in his hand, and takes one step back to survey the monster in return.

They’re small. They’re stained with blood and dust. Their chest makes odd little wheezing noises when they breathe and it appears that they’ve used what strength that they’d saved up moving to that side of the shed. They stare back at him, their eyes glowing, fading, guttering out for brief moments before coming back again. It’s too close a parallel to what Papyrus had witnessed with Sans on his deathbed.

It picks at the wound in his heart to see them like this. It would be mercy to kill them now.

“you reacted kinda harshly,” the smaller monster starts, their observation dry. They lean against the wall, the only solid thing in the shed keeping them upright. “when i called you `papyrus`... i dunno. maybe you don’t go by that.”

Papyrus regards them for a moment longer, as though the words they speak hold secret meaning. His body is tight and steady, one arm heavy with his bone attack. Ready to strike. Just in case. The two of them are the embodiment of juxtaposition - where Papyrus stands tall and strong, the intruder is frail and tiny.

“TELL ME WHO SENT YOU,” Papyrus suddenly demands. His voice belies how calm he really is; it’s on the verge of wavering.

Being in the same room as this monster that looks so similar to his brother is starting to affect him again. It doesn’t help that said monster is looking up at him, their eye lights flickering dully with a sympathetic expression on their face as though they _know_ he’s hurting.

He doesn’t need their pity. What Papyrus needs is _answers._ Why do they look like him? Who sent them? Why do they like torturing him like this, why are they…

Why are they looking at him like they’re seeing someone they care about as though from years past…?

“no one,” they reply. Papyrus can hear the truth in it, despite how much he wants to cast it aside and demand otherwise. He would’ve preferred it if they had lied. It would be easier to deal with.

“AND…” He doesn’t mean to stop, but here he is, his resolve crumbling. In reality, it hurts to see them injured. It hurts to hear his brother’s voice again as much as he wants for them to keep talking, it’s almost to the point where it’s physically painful. “HOW, THEN, DID YOU GET HERE?”

It’s easier to talk if he keeps it clinical. Precise. Like nothing can phase him.

Papyrus ignores the catch in their breathing and the way their eye lights gutter out again. It’s becoming a struggle to keep awake, apparently. He pushes down the feeling to grab them and assess the extent of their injuries, instead settling down to squat in front of them, leaning on the blood-red bone construct between his knees like a cane.

The other monster’s eyes focus on it, drawing against the wall with a shuddering breath as though one touch would end their life. Their legs scuff the floorboards to inch away, the sound and their breathing unnaturally loud in the dark.

They’re in pain. They’ve been in pain this entire time. He should end this now.

“kinda had to make a clean getaway,” they reply after a moment, cautiously moving as though to not startle him. Papyrus’ eyes remain hard, studious and searching. “i used a dimensional box.”

It doesn’t make sense. It sounds made up and untrue and stupid.

What is a dimensional box?

The monster’s eyes constrict as though caught off guard. Papyrus continues to glare at them, still on the defensive, his attack inching threateningly closer to the intruder as he leaned forward into their personal space. He must’ve asked the question out loud, as he’s met with a confused and concerned gaze.

Like Papyrus is insane for not knowing. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about nor what the significance is.

Essentially, it’s meaningless to ask. He should get this over with.

“WHATEVER THE CASE, I THINK YOU’LL FIND THAT OPPOSING ME WAS A FOOLISH ENDEAVOUR.”

The look-alike manages a wry grin, as though they knew that the entire time. There’s still the glint of confusion in their eyes, but they’re tired. They don’t have the strength to fight; it’s written, etched like scores into porcelain, all over their face. Papyrus knows this, and yet…

And yet he knows better than to let his guard down. He wouldn’t put it past a monster that looks the way they do to pull a fast and dirty trick. To gain the upper hand.

“YOU’LL STAY HERE FOR THE TIME BEING. UNTIL WHATEVER GLAMOUR THAT HOLDS YOU TOGETHER DISSIPATES OR YOU DECIDE TO REVEAL WHICH FACTION YOUR ALLEGIANCE LIES, SINCE YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY NOT-” Papyrus stops short, again, feeling a hot prickle threaten somewhere behind his eyes. “WHATEVER YOU ARE.”

The look-alike regards him, tired of holding themselves up. A rueful smile touches their mouth and Papyrus sees the trickle of blood that’s hidden at the corner, something he hadn’t noticed before. The blood on their clothes looks fresh and wet, making the air thick with the smell of it.

_They’re dying._

“call me anything you want,” they mutter, breaths pained, “just don’t call me late for dinner.”

Heat scalds across Papyrus’ face at the implication and he stands in the span of three seconds. His movement startles the smaller monster and they recoil as though expecting a blow, then double over with a swallowed cry. The red seeped in their clothes slowly spreads outward.

“s-sorry.”

It wrenches at Papyrus’ heart. He can’t…

They’re not in his care. They’re his prisoner. He’s not expected to feed them. He’s expected to feed no one but his own. He has no one else, save for the cat that’s been missing for a couple weeks shy of three months.

The fact that he hasn’t seen Doomfanger in so long makes his heart sink, but he keeps fragile hope that she’ll return. She hasn’t been gone for this long before, but he puts out food for her just in case. There is a broken floorboard in the corner of the shed where she escapes and returns when he isn’t home.

Papyrus puts thoughts of the missing cat away and gives in to a quiet sigh, pushed out of him forcibly as though it’s a self-soothing gesture. The monster doesn’t meet his gaze, too drawn in. Their posture slackens as their strength drains, too weak and exhausted to defend themselves.

_Too helpless._

Papyrus swallows thickly, averting his eyes from the sight. His brain is at a stalemate: help the intruder that wears his brother’s face and live to regret it, or allow them to die and wonder if this was in actuality a _second chance._

Could he really allow someone that looks so similar to Sans bleed out and die in his home?

Another wrench and Papyrus knows the decision is already made for him. The noise that escapes the smaller monster is wet and pathetic, but it hurts him all the same.

 

_‘C’mon, bring it in. One last hug, k? That’s it… you’ll be ok, alright? Trust me. Love ya, bro……… Ngk-’_

 

Papyrus is outside before he realises that his body has moved of its own accord. There was no guarding against that. He can still detect the smell of blood and dust on him, sticking to his hands even though Papyrus didn’t dare touch them. He still hears the muted groan, the rattling sigh of pain and then ultimately, relief.

He decides to go into his house, unable to quell the shakes that make him rattle. He’s never known the comfort of forgetting something until now.

To distract himself, Papyrus wanders the house. Checking the windows, the locks on the back door, to the empty basement. He goes back to the upstairs closet to fetch some more kibble before he remembers that he didn’t bring the dish with him.

No matter. He’ll bring another from the kitchen. He has plenty of bowls to spare, after all. Papyrus stomps his way back upstairs, tension easing from him through every step. His feet ache by the time he returns to the kitchen, thinking furiously, panicking, _what if._

He’s not feeding them. This food is for Doomfanger. He repeats the thought like a mantra. If they decide to help themselves to her food, it is of little consequence. In fact, if Papyrus adds tuna to the bowl, it’s only because he’s worried for her. Doomfanger’s been gone for quite some time. Perhaps the pungent smell of the fish will lure her home.

He allows himself to be deceived by the notion. Papyrus goes out of the house once more, his chest tight, bowl in hand, and he all but slams the door open.

For an instance, the monster jolts, panic flashing anew in their eyes. There is unguarded hope mingling with fear briefly before it vanishes, fading back to obscured and veiled pain and loss. They’ve managed to crawl a few feet to the centre of the room, drops of ruddy red dust staining the floor in increasing frequency.

“IDIOT,” Papyrus suddenly says after surveying the damage. He sees the flicker of their eye lights gutter out again and their arms tremble under the strain of holding themself upright.

Then a grin. It’s not much, but somehow it hits the nostalgic part of Papyrus’ soul, just twisting the knife.

_That was rich._

They don’t move, but their gaze follows the natural progression down to Papyrus’ hand, to the bowl of food. There’s hope in their eyes now, brought on by the scent of shredded tuna.

“welp,” they say, a world-weary tone, “been called worse by lesser people, i guess. that for me?”

Papyrus hates that they have the nerve to ask and he again, feels the heat of embarrassment over the whole thing. It’s rude to make him say it, so he doesn’t. In fact, the words that come out of his mouth are scathing in their untruth.

“NO. IN FACT, STOP STEALING MY CAT’S FOOD. IT’S UNSEEMLY.”

“another unseemly thing: being accosted by someone that looks like family. but hey, who am i to judge?” they shoot back, clearly affronted.

They have never struck him. They only attempted to dodge, so Papyrus knows that there is a reversal here. There is no disillusion - the intruder thinks him family. How absurd. It’s ridiculous!! They’ve never met before. It’s more likely than not mind games.

Papyrus has to rationalise it this way, otherwise he’ll fall for the trap.

He’s torn from his thoughts when he sees the monster collapse. His hand raises like a shot, Blue magic encircling the fragile form of their soul, anxious and afraid. Just as before in the snowfields where he’d met them for the first time, there’s an echo in the very centre of their being that whispers his name, quiet, confused and alone.

Papyrus knows the feeling immediately and he’s caught off guard.

They’re limp. The jokes were a front this entire time, their remaining strength a ruse. Papyrus approaches with an air of caution but keeps them in place, holding their body aloft so they don’t hit the floor.

Their magic is paler between the joints than the day before. Their breathing is shallower. If Papyrus knew them at all, he would’ve aided them on the principle that they’d owe him a favour later. But Papyrus is not the sort to do so intentionally, instead feeling genuine concern for the monster in his shed. That they had resorted to eating cat food at all meant that they were desperate.

He knew the feeling, but it still didn’t settle well with him. Papyrus allowed himself to get closer, doing what he knew was unforgivable by any world’s standard.

He sends out an enquiry. It’s perhaps a little rougher than what they’re used to, but Papyrus feels wary, nervous. He tries not to allow it to echo through the brief connection as he Checks the monster - admittedly, it was something he should’ve done ages ago.

The monster’s unconscious, yet they still manage a jerky breath. Perhaps it’s with the force in which Papyrus extracts the information. It’s like tearing vellum-thin pages out of an old damaged book.

Still, it makes the taller skeleton’s body turn cold when the enquiry comes back.

> **[ * SANS  1 ATK 1 DEF** **  
> ***** one of many, one too many.** **  
> ***** made himself scarce at the End.    ]**

Papyrus stops short, the hot prickle returning to his eyes. So they _were_ Sans. He isn’t sure, but it was unheard of to willingly change Check statistics. And even if they could, they’re unconscious…

Swallowing hard, Papyrus looks them over, more careful now that the Check revealed to him just who they were. It made no sense, but there was Sans - _a_ Sans, rather, and Papyrus doesn’t know how to handle it. For one, he feels as though his heart is close to bursting from emotion, but on the other hand, he’s _certain_ that this isn’t his brother.

He Checks again, just to make sure.

> **[ * SANS  1 ATK 1 DEF** **  
> ***** just hanging on by his fingertips.  ]**

Despite the lack of urgency in the words, Papyrus freezes. A flurry of accusations rush into his head, all cramming into the small space as reprimand for not helping the monster sooner. For doubting their claim to their identity without giving a formal Check. For allowing their health to deteriorate to such a state.

The blood would stain the floor but it would leave an indelible mark on his soul, not unlike the LV gained from…

Papyrus lowers their body closer to the floor so he can look over their wounds. They’re chilly, not because of the snowy weather or the lack of insulation in the shed, but because of the amount of magic that they’ve lost as a result of their injuries. He dispels the bone attack that he’s been clutching the entire time and kneels beside the Sans, mentally making the awkward shift from ‘enemy’ to ‘neutral captive’. Their life is in his hands now.

He’s not used to saving lives. Not from this close to Falling Down. His intuition is telling him that he should off them swiftly and pretend they never arrived, but his hands shake with the thought.

He can’t harm them. Not someone like this. Not unguarded.

It would be mercy.

But it wouldn’t be merciful.

Something inside of him had changed when his brother passed on. For one thing, the marrow in him flared and it took him several hours to move from his bedside, but he didn’t know until much later that he couldn’t heal any longer. Papyrus attempted it now, the compassion and love inside of him twisted and yearning to burn instead of spread warm, soothing magic over to them.

But it fails.

It’s alright. He’d been expecting as much. Papyrus tries another thing instead, carefully pulling one side of the blood-soaked and dusty hoodie and pretending the very core of his being isn’t exposed for anyone who might try and peer through the keyhole.

When he lifts the sticky, blood-soaked shirt, he can see that they have broken ribs. It looks to be about three, but Papyrus can’t judge at the angle he’s looking at unless he wants to aggravate the wounds. He’s unsure where his damage ends and where prior injuries begin; their rib cage is such a mess. There’s a weak white glow beneath the bone, stained deep red from days… no, it had to be _weeks_ of being this way.

They had held on this long and had even attempted to disengage fighting him.

Papyrus feels ill, not impart to the fact that death is thick in the monster’s wounds. It’s that, most likely, Papyrus has contributed to them Falling Down - which they haven’t yet, but he imagines it’s only a matter of time, now.

It’s his fault this version of his brother is dying, just as it was his fault that Sans died before. The least he can do is make them comfortable.

He does the unthinkable, dropping every possible guard he’s had in place to carefully lift them. Papyrus feels the warm wetness stick to his fingers as he manoeuvres them into his arms, their body smaller, frailer than he remembers his brother being.

Maybe they weren’t the same.

Maybe they were.

Papyrus no longer knows and can no longer reason with his own thoughts. All he knows is this Sans is an idiot, and they should’ve been a lot firmer in asking for assistance. He leaves the cat food for Doomfanger as intended, carefully holding the smaller skeleton to his chest while he wraps his scarf over their head to shelter their face from the locals. It’s only a short walk from the shed to his porch, but Papyrus feels oddly protective of them.

After all, what kind of Papyrus would he be if he didn’t at least try?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: implied reference to assisted suicide, bleeding out, continued forced confinement, reference to genocide route ending + spoilers, debated mercy killing


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans practises unconscious food thievery, is pieced back together, and immediately is repaid by Papyrus having a nervous breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in the end notes

They’re pale.

It’s a different sort of paleness to the pallor of Sans’ bones - or rather, his  _ brother’s  _ bones. Papyrus already doesn’t know how to differentiate the fact that there’s two of the same person, let alone the fact that there might be a softer version of  _ himself  _ somewhere. Papyrus decides to ignore that notion for now and instead pays attention to the very real fact he has a monster fading fast on his kitchen floor.

Yes, he’s made a surgeon’s table out of his tiled floors, figuring it would be easier to clean later. He doesn’t want to think about it, so Papyrus quickly unhooks the pauldrons from his shoulders and unlaces the sides of his plates to let them fall on the couch. He’ll deal with putting it away later. He’ll deal with his emotions later.

Later.

Later, when things are made right again. When there isn’t a dying monster in his kitchen.

 

He runs warm water into a steel bowl from the kitchen tap so he can clean the wounds without discomfort, which is the last thing he wants to subject them to.

How has he already started to care for this monster, when it had been at most only three days since their first encounter? He doesn’t have time to linger on it. The fact that their magic has no colour in the first place is making him more worried than he ought to be for a stranger.

Papyrus doesn’t know if he can stand the sight of someone that even  _ resembles _ his brother dusting in his home again.

He removes his bloodied gloves, setting them by the sink. Some of his darker towels are sacrificed to alleviate the pressure on their spine and to prevent further injury if the look-alike decides to thrash while he’s in the middle of cleaning them up.

Out of daily habit, he empties a tin into a bowl of Doomfanger’s preferred tuna. It’s not for the cat this time, and heat scalds across Papyrus’ face when he realises what he’s doing. He blatantly ignores it. It’s an emergency situation, and if this monster is going to recover at all to repay any kind of debt, he has to stop hanging up at every step.

It’s difficult to refer to them as ‘Sans’, even in the quiet of his mind. Papyrus feels that it’s too much of a logical leap to call them that, so he mentally settles on ‘them’ until he can think of a better alternative.

‘Idiot’ has its appeal, though.

 

Well then.

First thing’s first. Removing the hoodie, which already looks like it had seen better days without being soaked with blood, marrow and dust. To add insult to injury, the zipper is broken, so Papyrus knows he has to actually…  _ touch _ them in order to gain better access.

He hesitates with the bowl of tuna, eyeing them over as though expecting them to jump up and surprise him, but they’re still. They remain that way as he sets the bowl beside the stranger’s head so their magic can latch onto it and absorb its nutrients. There’s a soft glow as a bit of the monster food is absorbed, messily, motes of magic drifting in the space between the monster’s mouth and the dish. It sprinkles onto their clothes while a little is drawn into their bones. Most of it lands in the space between the dish and their body, discarded like crumbs scattered across the tiles.

_ There’s too much of a parallel. _

Hurrying to slam the mental referral to his brother’s weakened days, Papyrus continues, his hands shaking and hovering as he decides where to begin.

It makes his bones prickle and his marrow sizzle like he’s being shocked. Papyrus doesn’t know why, but it’s an eerie feeling, touching someone that should be dead and gone. It’s simultaneously the most morbid and curious thing he’s ever done. He places a hand carefully on each side of the zipper’s teeth, holding them together so he can pull the toggle down all the way without disturbing them too much.

All the while, Papyrus is praying, willing himself with an inner monologue of;  _ ‘I mean you no harm, I have no intent to hurt you…’ _

For lack of a better term, it works. The toggle is slightly less stubborn than its owner and jerkily glides down, only to jam at the end, the track too muddied with blood and dust and grit. Papyrus hisses quietly in frustration, his eyes cautiously flicking up to their face to ensure they’re not watching him, grin on their face.

But they’re not. There’s still the same, chilly kind of silence exhibited by those who have lost consciousness. Even worse still is the stuttered way the light jostling is making their breaths whistle. The food is barely touched, barely absorbed.

Papyrus swallows, more of that reckless fear and guilt sliding up his false-throat.

He’s quiet as he works, noting the subtle way that their bones click together, a hollow noise as though they’re filled with air instead of marrow. Removing the hoodie is an ordeal, and Papyrus cares little about their clothes, so he simply cuts the toggle away from the teeth’s track with a pair of sharpened shears, gingerly pulling one side of the fabric panel away. He’s sure that his little intruder will forgive him for saving their life.

Surveying the damage, Papyrus attempts to remove their shirt, but it’s stuck. It’s either caught on bone, or wedged between the break in their ribs. He can see red slowly blooming from their right side, evidence that movement has agitated the wound. Papyrus swallows the pinch of worry in his soul, mentally chastising himself to  _ be careful. _

He decides to cut away the shirt, but he discovers the monster is wearing layers. The first shirt snips through easily, made of worn jersey that likely hasn’t seen enough days in a washer, but that’s of little concern. Papyrus carefully plies the fabric away from the second shirt, which appears  _ much _ worse.

What greets him is a sickening sight. The monster is slashed clear across their chest. The wound is both impact and razor-thin, bleeding fresh and matted to the second layer. It looks old, framed by fabric stained with the proof of how much it had to hurt.

Papyrus feels ill at the sight and by the intent throbbing in the wound. It threatens to lash out at him, telltale prickles and burns travelling up his phalanges to bite at the one who dares disturb the body it owns. It’s inflicted by something stronger than him, with enough LV to bare down and swallow him whole.

The King?

No. The monster would be true dust by now if so. Papyrus doesn’t understand how the monster is still alive, but is willing to bet it’s out of pure luck or sheer stubbornness. Just like-

_ Don’t draw that parallel. _

He wets the rag in the bowl and gets to work, ignoring the thrum and sting of intent thick in the wound. His charge doesn’t move, but their chest jolts slightly when he applies the warm rag to the left side of it. A shaky sigh escapes them, an undernote of pain inside of a bare moan.

Papyrus continues on when they don’t move. He doesn’t expect them to; it makes things infinitely easier, for one. The shirt they wear is a disaster, but the more Papyrus plies the fabric away from the wound, the more he begins to realise that it’s the one thing keeping many of the tiny broken bone pieces in place.

He’s careful when he brings the shears close again, to cut down the front of the stranger’s shirt so he can carefully peel it back to properly dress the wounds. He guards their body with the back of his hand, slowly guiding the blade down. He is very careful and controlled. He can’t gamble; they’re at 1 HP and still haven’t recovered.

Once the shears are out of the way, Papyrus leans back with a tight exhale, every force of exertion behind it. The water in the bowl has turned dark pink, signs that magic is bleeding out alongside the red. He grunts, trying to force himself into a state where he doesn’t have to worry. It works for the better half of two minutes, when he empties and refills the bowl with warm water again.

He briefly deserts them in order to go upstairs to the bathroom, where a stash of bandages and mending salve is kept. The bandages are old and yellowed, much of the adhesive gummy and disgusting. There are bare traces of the salve, but it’s better than nothing. Papyrus doesn’t care, as long as they do the job. He’s willing to try anything to keep the tiny little bone shards together, until the shop is open. It’s already too late and he doubts some back-alley miscreant would have a box of plasters to sell someone of the Royal Guard.

Papyrus gives his head a shake when he resettles on his knees next to the sleeping monster. In his brief absence, more of the food has been absorbed and just as much is between their face and the bowl. Papyrus gives a small noise of disapproval, but doesn’t do anything in retaliation. He just prepares one of the worse cracks at the wounded skeleton’s right shoulder, carefully holding the bone in place while he presses the gauze bandage to their splintered clavicle.

There’s a soft hiss of pain and immediately Papyrus freezes, his eyes going dark as the bare traces of light flicker back to their eyes. It’s there for only an instant before their eye lights gutter out again, the breath they’ve been holding slowly releasing in a pained, frightened shudder.

“I’VE GOT YOU-” It just slips out of him. Papyrus feels the knot somewhere between his rib cage and jaw, threatening to choke him like a noose. He doesn’t know if the stranger heard him, but they relax regardless; whether it’s from their strength waning or finding comfort in his slip up, Papyrus doesn’t know.

His limbs find their use again and he carefully, painstakingly smoothes over the plaster so it better adheres to the bone. He can only imagine the amount of pain that the smaller skeleton is in, so Papyrus keeps his touches light and steady, despite how much he feels like he’s going to fly apart. It’s how tense he is.

Some shards need to be fitted into place, literally glued together with the mending salve - or what precious little there is to hold them together with. It doesn’t help that despite his best efforts, Papyrus is putting together the world’s bloodiest jigsaw puzzle and with every piece fitted into place, his jaw tightens.

 

His charge stirs after two hours of Papyrus dealing with it all and muttering to himself despite the tightness he feels curling along his spine. While their right hand doesn’t move, there is a dull, quivering shudder that creeps throughout their bones. It ends with a jerky, choked off grunt of agony. Somewhere in the raspy obscenities, Papyrus hears his name again. A childhood nickname he hasn’t heard for ages.

He ignores it. Papyrus allows himself to power through it, somehow bolstered by the fact that they’re aware and awake enough to curse and protest through the pain. It means that their food thievery has done them well, and Papyrus doesn’t have to worry.

Not that he was worrying much at all, but after becoming invested in their well-being, it was difficult not to surmount some sort of awkward truce. He was, after all, the one that exacerbated their wounds.

“god, hurts worse’n…” they mutter, feverish and thick. Their eye lights are white, hazy and mote-like, not clear as though they were fully conscious. They glow around the edges instead of a clear definition, and Papyrus knows better than to relax.

Although, it’s interesting that they have clarity enough to compare injuries such as these to anything they might’ve had before.

The monster blinks, some of the roundness returning to their eye lights.

“…papy?” There’s the nickname again.

“DON’T CALL ME THAT,” Papyrus snaps right away. He hides the fact that his sockets have recalled the irritating skill of heating up and prickling, like he hadn’t been trying this entire time not to allow himself to get emotional.

“sorry… papyrus,” they mutter, a soft grunt marking their effort. The taller skeleton gives them a look, distraught and ashamed all at once. “thanks.”

“YOU’RE CERTAINLY FULL OF SURPRISES,” Papyrus remarks, trying to ease the tightening feeling around his neck through a dry swallow. “ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.”

They attempt a laugh, but instead wince. Papyrus notices a vague bloom of cyan touch in between their joints; magic stabilising enough to self-regenerate. It’s a promising sign. He breathes out a sigh of relief despite himself.

“tried t’go to grillby’s…” they whisper, every word an effort. “think i… overshot my landing.”

“YOU DON’T SAY.” It’s all Papyrus can do not to smack them in retaliation. He doubts they’d survive even something jocular, at this rate. Irate with himself more than the other monster, he adds hastily, “IF YOU CAN TALK, YOU CAN EAT.”

They eye him wearily, as though the notion is so foreign they need time to sort out how to translate it in their head before making sense of the suggestion. Then their eyes go sidelong to the dish next to their head, and they give an awkward, half-choked, half-amused chuckle.

“fish.”

“TUNA,” Papyrus corrects primly, “YOU HAD NO COMPLAINTS WHILST UNCONSCIOUS, SO THERE SHOULD BE NONE NOW.”

“love the logic-leap there,” they mutter a little dryly, another hiss erupting when Papyrus continues to treat their shattered ribs.

 

He continues to splint and mend bone as best as he is able, taking frequent pauses to dab away the blood and dust. When there are no more protests, Papyrus looks up to discover his charge has again lost consciousness. They look better for it, however a mess their rib cage is.

Hours pass, leaving Papyrus in silence as the stranger slumbers. His mind flits from one subject to another, touching upon painful memories like a bruise, just to remember that they’re there. He can’t imagine how painful the wounds are, hit with more sympathy pains than he cares to admit. Broken bones burn and sting, a fiery and sharp agony even when the break is clean.

This monster’s bones, however… they’re splintered and cut through, razor-thin. There had been weight behind the attack. Papyrus knows the angle, can visualise how the monster moved, skirting backward to dodge but coming up short. As though they hadn’t anticipated it. As though they were tired. The intent to kill still leeches through the wound like a venomous sting, and Papyrus has learned to stop flinching from every touch.

It’s sad to think about. Papyrus feels little sympathy for others, but he’ll make an exception for this monster. It’s more likely than not his own fault that he’d attacked without asking questions, although if truth be told, the stranger didn’t necessarily offer any worthy excuse  _ not _ to attack.

LV makes it easy to strike first and ask questions later.

He hates it.

 

While he wallows in the guilt and the reminder of a monster long gone, Papyrus works deep into the night. He’s run out of mending salve for now, barely eking by with the remainder of bandages. Most of the smaller bones are pieced together, but they still bleed freshly; every time Sans’ chest moves to breathe, they press against the cracks.

Papyrus watches their chest raise and fall, a twinge in his soul from a parallel echoing from his memory. He so wishes they had a different face. Whether or not this Sans or his Sans are one or two separate entities - as strange as that notion is to entertain - Papyrus doesn’t know how to handle that information.

‘Dimensional Box’ makes no sense. Such a thing doesn’t exist here. The only  _ item _ boxes that survived the war with humans were unfortunately lost to gangs and turf wars, ultimately destroyed. There’s simply none left to use, to travel through or otherwise. A pity, considering Papyrus feels a yearning to discover their properties and what engineering secrets they might’ve held.

It’s a lost dream, though, yet a pleasant one. It distracts him enough when he pauses to root through the cupboards, sacrificing starch to create a paste that mimics mending salve. He finds more bandages that are older still, having remembered using them when he was a young teen. They’re dark grey and have punk bunnies printed on them in cartoony garishness. An old curtain made of a gauzy fabric is liberated from above the kitchen window to use as bandage strips.

As emotionally and physically exhausted as he is, Papyrus doesn’t have time to wait until morning.

Though the homemade salve is sticky and warm, Papyrus finds it easier to apply than the mending salve. He cuts strips from the curtain and dips them into the bowl of starch mixture, then approaches on of the more sturdier cracks in their ribs. It’s a helix-based twist, all the way down the rib to their side, but applying the wrap to the bone is far easier than he could’ve imagined.

His whole body tenses when Sans breathes out a stuttered breath, pained and achy. Papyrus only realises then that he’s already privately accepted that their name  _ is _ probably ‘Sans’. A twist of pain echoes through his chest when the monster draws in another breath, sharper this time and on the verge of tears.

“EASY,” he murmurs, careful to hold their good shoulder down. “DON’T JOSTLE. YOU’LL ONLY HURT YOURSELF FURTHER.”

“burns-” they just barely manage to force out. The smaller monster’s breaths catch, inhaling sharply on the verge of panic. Every intake disturbs their wounds, making them draw in a sharper breath in response.

Papyrus stares at them, his eyes widened as he takes in everything, accounting for  _ anything. _

_ You fool, what have you done? _

He has to think logically. Carefully, he pins them down as a strangled noise comes forth, voice just touching higher as though truly in more pain than before. Papyrus had tested the temperature before - it was warm, pleasantly so, having let the mixture cool down after it thickened.

When his hand registers the coolness of their body, that’s when Papyrus realises the difference must likely feel all the more intense. Like suffering frostbite and finding yourself at Grillby’s; it’s too much. It hurts to know that he’s put them through further unnecessary pain. A Fallen monster turns so cold that it’s ill-advised to bring them into a tub to warm up. It just feels  _ molten _ to them.

They’re not icy, but it’s close enough. They’re not Fallen, but they’re close.

Sans’ breaths come faster, hissing out of their teeth in panic. They continue to repeat in agony, “it burns”, tears brimming their eyes. Papyrus is close to panicking, but beyond the dreaded skip in his soul’s beat, there is little else he can do when the smaller skeleton attempts to thrash away from his help.

He waits. It’s all Papyrus can do, as much as it pains him to see them like this. He’s aware, in some dark and disgusting part of his mind, that he’s already claimed responsibility for them. That they, somehow, have wormed into the empty place in his heart and made a home there in the short time they’ve interacted.

It hurts to think about, so Papyrus stuffs it far into the corner of his mind, grinding his teeth together as the monster’s small struggles travel up his arms. Their pathetic whimpering cries tear at him, their breathing hard and laboured.

 

Eventually, they calm. Their eye lights are still blurry, face wet with tears and their voice rough from the pain. They don’t say anything more, but Papyrus can nearly feel the silent plea to not burn them again. That familiar tightness wraps around his false throat and Papyrus gives a curt nod. It’s the least he can do.

However it transpired, there’s now a feeble trust between them. The Sans is awake, watching as Papyrus moves and lifts another piece of gauze from the bowl, holding it so it cools in the night air. Their eyes drift a little between breaks and Papyrus finds himself at awe in how much they trust him, despite the fact that he’s hurt them on more than one occasion.

It’s well into the first dredges of early morning. Papyrus usually stays up all night, but the labour has been intricate and precise, and the emotional backlash made his head spin. It does him no favours now, when he’s even more exhausted than he’d started out. He finds himself just watching the strange monster, who seems to calmly watch him back in turn.

The surgery of piecing back their rib cage has taken its toll. Despite how it’s a sign of weakness to allow it to show, Papyrus can’t help the way his jaw clicks when he stifles a yawn.

It triggers a reciprocal action and the Sans is unashamed to fully show it, it appears. Papyrus can tell they’re antsy to move, but even the slight stretch that ensues is followed by a flinch.

A few more moments past before they cough slightly. Papyrus jerks out from a half-doze, overcompensating by tensing every fibre that makes him up. There’s an awkward kind of grin on their face, one that pulls slightly to one side, but none of it touches their eyes. Instead they seem as exhausted as Papyrus feels.

“hey, big slugger,” they drawl, their voice catching with the breaks.

The Sans shifts slightly, no doubt sore despite Papyrus’ very real sacrifice to ensure that they’re comfortable on the floor. Still, it’s the floor, and it’s the kitchen, so it’s cooler than it should be. He doesn’t make meals as much as he used to anymore.

“s’kinda chilly.”

Papyrus nods, having slumped his shoulders, staring at his handiwork. All that really can be done now is prescribed bed rest, but the taller skeleton feels it’s a stretch for him to carry them to the couch. They most certainly are  _ not _ welcome in the only spare bedroom.

They glance down to their chest, inhaling with a shuddering effort. “you cut my favourite hoodie.”

Again, Papyrus nods. All strength to argue is sapped from him. He’s crashing hard. They watch him carefully for a moment and attempt to rise, pushing their left forearm down on the tiles to hoist themself up.

A hiss of pain later and they’re back on the floor, gasping. Papyrus hovers over them, hands raised uselessly, not entirely sure how to proceed nor how to process. They grimace at him, their laughter tight and pained all at once.

“shouldn’t’ve done that,” is the weak retort. The Sans looks down again after settling and gingerly touches their sternum, coated in paste and bandages. “you’re a funny guy. first you kick the everloving piss out of me, now you’re patching me up.”

“IT’S UNETHICAL TO ATTACK SOMEONE WHO’S INJURED,” Papyrus replies tersely, “WERE YOU MORE FORTHRIGHT WITH INTRODUCING YOURSELF AND YOUR MOTIVES, I WOULD HAVE NOT ATTACKED.”

“you got a weird sense of ethics,” they mumble numbly. As though resigned to their fate, they lean back, relaxing if only because it likely feels like the least exetrenuous thing to do. Papyrus doesn’t know how to take anything away from that apart from offense, so he leans back, glowering at them.

Now he feels like asking questions.

“WHY TURN UP HERE,” he asks, his voice low for once. There’s still the residual tightness from fighting off his grief from every chance he gets, but Papyrus is holding strong. His voice doesn’t waver once. “WHY NOT GO HOME. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM. FUCK KNOWS YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.”

It’s been awhile since he’s cursed so loosely that for a startling moment, Papyrus thinks the jolt that passes through the stranger’s body is due to its venom. It’s not. There’s a child-like chagrin that flashes behind the monster’s eyes before it disappears.

“`cause there’s no one left.”

Papyrus doesn’t believe them at first. There is a disconnect from the night before and every carefully wrapped bandage and applied salve, paste, and plaster. Papyrus watches them, his eye lights gone, feeling weighted behind his sockets.

No one left.

_ ‘Made himself scarce at the End.’ _

The end of what?

“SURELY THERE WAS SOMEONE. IT’S VERY LIKELY YOU DIDN’T LOOK HARD ENOUGH-” The pain and guilt that passes through their expression in the blink of an eye makes Papyrus break hard on his accusations. There’s an echo of breathing, panicked and hurt in his skull.

 

_ ‘…Didn’t try hard enough, buddy. C’mon, gimme your bullet. I’ll help-’ _

 

He doesn’t have the option to get up and leave. He stays unnaturally quiet, hanging his face in his palm. Every inch of him is tight as a rubberband ready to snap. It hurts that even the simplest of things are setting him off, crippling him in front of a stranger.

One that happens to share his brother’s name and face. Who also appears to be dying.

They sigh and it cuts through him. It’s full of pity, the kind his brother had shown during his last weeks. Papyrus can see them watching him through the gaps in his fingers, like they know the torment he’s going through. As though every grief is etched into his bones and the stranger can read them perfectly.

God, how he wishes he could turn tail and run. But he’s always been too good at holding his ground.

What hurts even more is that they don’t attempt to defend themselves. It’s either due to the fact that they’re guilty and know it, thus it’s useless to argue, or they’re just stunned by having it thrown in their face. Regardless, Papyrus feels shame like he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“LET ME JUST… GIVE YOU SOMETHING ELSE TO WEAR.” It’s an easy enough distraction, and Papyrus makes a show of wiping down his face in what he hopes conveys weariness instead of hiding the few pricks that dare to spring to his eyes. “BEFORE YOU STICK TO MY FLOORS LIKE A WEEK OLD FETID MEATBALL.”

They crack a grin, but Papyrus knows it’s only to humour him. He hopes they aren’t watching as he stands, his legs feeling like molten jello despite everything. He sends them a wary look before retreating to the living room, ignoring the weak thumbs-up from the floor as he looks for a blanket to sacrifice to the mess that’s imposing on his life now.

Despite the parallels, there’s no way in hell Papyrus is going to give them his brother’s clothes or bed. He’s forgotten about the fit he threw after locking the intruder away in the shed, the pail of wall plaster and the mesh holding the patched holes together strewn about. Papyrus ignores it in favour of grabbing the old green blanket on the couch, dislodging the forgotten pauldrons in the process so they tumble to the floor.

He lets the blanket drop next to them when he returns. He’s fully aware of the fact that they’re still watching him, like they can’t figure something out. They tense visibly, clearly agitated when Papyrus moves to manoeuvre them out of their sweater. A barely-restrained string of curses tumble from the Sans’ mouth when Papyrus lifts them, gingerly, under the arms. Their whole body language screams of agony and despite not having much strength, their hands fly forward to grasp at Papyrus’ clothes.

“BEAR WITH ME,” Papyrus says quickly. Every breath that they draw starts to quicken, muffled by the white noise collecting in his skull. He doesn’t realise how panicky he sounds, nor the way that the smaller skeleton nods, jerkily, compliant.

When he lifts them, it’s otherworldly, impossibly lighter than what Papyrus felt when he lifted them with magic before. Papyrus’ nonexistent stomach lurches when he feels the unmistakable sensation of dust fall through his fingertips, sticking, silent and thick. He feels the weight of guilt press against his chest and for a blinding moment, he can’t see. He can’t smell. All he knows is the crushing, deafening silence of a house gone empty.

He’s done it again. He’s done it again and god, stars, all alignments of all planets, he had  _ tried. _ He’d tried so hard to keep them alive. Even when he’d blamed them for his emotions, for the flashes of his brother’s death, he hadn’t meant it. Not really. It layers the twisting knife in his soul that he’s yet again, responsible for his brother’s death.

A faded tone filters through the intense grief, lilting and smooth. He doesn't know the voice, and yet he does. Papyrus gathers his wits, pips of light spotting his vision until what he sees is clear.

What’s staring back at him is a face he knows, different yet the same. One he hasn’t seen in years. Tears threaten to prickle, hot and alive behind his eyes, when he reads the confused expression the opposing monster wears. Deep grey circles line their eye sockets and they’re a little sweaty, but the telltale glow of cyan magic between their bones’ joints cements his frail hope like a savior in a crashing storm.

They’re not dead.

He stares at them, stunned, clueless as to what has happened - as if it was a fugue or a figment of his imagination. They look at him, the ruse of resignation and apathy dropped to one of companionship and empathy instead.

“hey, buddy,” Sans offers kindly. “you kind of look like you need a hug.”

Papyrus hasn’t had a proper hug in years. The revelation and offer both stun him further, a tight feeling welling in the centre of his chest. When he doesn’t say anything in response, Sans leans on his shoulder, bracing to push themself up. They’re unsteady, but not as unsteady as Papyrus’ recoiling thoughts.

They must realise this, as they’re patient with him. In the corner of Papyrus’ whirling memories, he remembers the trait of patience and the colour that blooms from their magic.

They’re so much smaller without their hoodie, it would be comical if Papyrus wasn’t shaking where he sat. Their small hand shakes along with him, but it’s a comforting weight on his shoulder. Papyrus just moves through the emotions, one after the other, trying to keep everything inside while the dam inside his heart is rammed at full force.

His breath stutters.

He hasn’t been able to grieve properly. He’s not made for the state of the world where it’s acceptable to kill family members when they’ve Fallen Down.

‘Fallen Down’ strikes a chord deep inside of him, reverberating in his soul to the tune of solitary chilliness that Papyrus has known for years. No goodbye, no true closure, only a tinny silence as the attack dropped to the floor, and the rage in his soul broil like quicksilver when the EXP flooded into him.

Whether or not Sans has figured out that his brother is gone is something he doesn’t want to touch upon. He vaguely realises that they’ve got him, one arm cautiously slung over his shoulder. It’s the best that they can do with how frozen Papyrus has become. They just wait it out, arm trembling through what little strength they’ve got left.

Clarity filters through, muddy water clearing gradually until Papyrus is able to escape the linear torrent of despair from reliving his brother’s death. He doesn’t meet their eyes, not trusting himself not to outright bawl when he sees the compassion so plainly etched upon their face.

In some godawful part of his soul, he knows what he heard when he was withdrawn. Of Sans’ voice, both now and long ago, “you actually don’t have a mean bone in your body, do you?”

He regains himself, bit by bit. It’s slow, the silence punctured by sharp breaths that gradually ease. Papyrus realises that they’re coming from  _ him, _ not from Sans.

Sans.

Not his Sans, but one regardless. Even if they don’t end up being Sans, Papyrus cannot fathom how they’ve forged their Check stats.

His head is starting to throb. Papyrus powers through it, avoiding their gentle smile, seeing the relief in their eyes flood back. He moves their hand from his shoulder, carefully inspecting it. No dings. No scratches. Nothing to show for a life full of hardship. Nothing to show that they should be alive in his world.

It’s a hack. A ruse. Papyrus doesn’t know how to process it, so he doesn’t. He lets the facts that stand before him slide off him where they can be addressed later, on the floor of his shattered psyche.

It’s better if they rest. Papyrus is tired. Automatically, he rises in silence and helps them to stand. It’s an ordeal, considering they’re at their limit, but there are no complaints this time. Papyrus tries not to see the bleeding concern as he leads Sans over to the couch, allowing them to hold onto him as he sorts out the cushion situation.

It’s painful no matter how he approaches it, but when they’re finally on their back on the couch, Papyrus drapes them with the blanket and turns to go. He’d rather go up to his room to call in, as he’s sure he’s too emotionally compromised to be of any use to Undyne today.

But his sweater is caught. It’s a feeble grip, but it makes him pause as though it’s a solid jerk back twelve feet. Papyrus chances a glance back, scared of what he will find.

They smile at him. It’s tentative and without judgement, as though they can read every hope and fear in his soul just from his face. They look a lot more comfortable on the couch surrounded by cushions and the blanket. Hopefully they’ll last.

“hey.”

Papyrus nods to show he’s listening, but it’s out of habit.

“i know we’re not really… we didn’t really get off on the right foot,” they say, their gaze following Papyrus’ shoulder down to his hand. “i’m not who you think i am and you’re sure not who i thought you were… but i want you to know, right. no hard feelings. i definitely don’t want to, uh. encroach where i’m not wanted. but at the same time…” Sans pauses, repressing a wince when they inhale too deeply. “i’m in no condition to go anywhere so, uh… you don’t have to worry.”

More silence stretches between the two. Papyrus watches them, sure that his soul is beating and bleeding for how badly it’s hurting.

“i’ll be here when you come back, ok?”

Papyrus nods, but he fully expects them to be gone when he returns. He doesn’t know how he’s so sure, but his quiet agreement is enough for Sans to let go of his sleeve.

He goes about his daily ritual, checking the windows. Trying the locks. Re-enforcing the barriers on the doors. It’s so routine that he can do it without thinking. When everything is confirmed secure, Papyrus makes his way upstairs. He pulls open his door, enters, and closes it behind him. Every footfall heavy, Papyrus strides to his bed, not bothering to wash up as he collapses onto his mattress, curling in on himself.

All he has is himself. Today, it feels like he has someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: blood and gore, reference to past attempted assisted suicide, reference to past successful assisted suicide, grief over lost family, these two idiots being generally bad at communicating, panic attacks
> 
> At least Sans is being taken care of now holy hell.
> 
> I forgot to mention but inspiration for family members being killed for EXP when someone Falls Down instead of letting them die is based on Nanenna’s headcanon in their fanfic [”The Things You Haven’t Told Me”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012415/chapters/37365122) (mind the tags)!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus roots through Sans' pockets, does some laundry, and sells Sans food after scolding him about Falling Down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning(s) in the end notes

It takes a little more than an hour for Papyrus to recover. He slinks out of bed, weary, and exits his room. He doesn’t hear anything apart from the muted sounds of life outside his house, having spent the entire night awake and drawn up like a bow. He’s tense and weeping like a child has gotten him no further to catharsis than before.

The only difference now is that Papyrus is tempted to test the look-alike’s assurance that they’d be there when he decides to come down again.

He’s afraid of what he’ll find, so he stays upstairs on the landing. Papyrus sees their shape, cocooned safe in the blanket, the bare whisper of magic thrumming around them as they slowly recover.

He’s never helped someone like this before. Not for any exchange, for no debt, for no service rendered. He’s not been paid, so why is this being done? Why does he continue to hurt himself like this? They’re not family.

They’re still there. The unspoken promise of ‘I won’t dust on your couch’ means scores more than Papyrus thought it would. It does his heart good to see them alive, even if they’re still in pain. Even if it’s only been an hour.

 

He realises a little belatedly that he’s neglected to clean up the kitchen. It’s a distraction he latches onto immediately. Sans’ blood-stained hoodie still lies open where they had been resting, and Papyrus focuses on it as he creeps down the stairs. Every footfall feels thunderous and loud, even though the sound his feet emits are silent as the night.

Papyrus turns at the end of the landing, watching in silence as he takes in his charge. They’re resting, eye sockets closed. Their magic manifests to recover, but with only a handful of tuna, there is not likely to be much progress. Papyrus will have to fix that, but he’ll let them sleep for now.

The hoodie remains sticky with the remnants of its owner’s injuries. Papyrus stoops to pick it up along with his towels and scarf. His kitchen will have to make do as a laundry room for now.

Habitually, he searches the pockets for anything as he fills up the kitchen sink with cool water. He’s learned early in life that’s the best way to remove dust and blood from fabric. Papyrus realises what he’s doing when he removes a scrap of red cloth, a few errant gold pieces and a beaten up cell phone with a broken screen. It’s high tech - far more advanced than he’s ever seen before.

Papyrus lays the bare minimum belongings on the counter; it’s not a breach of privacy if he’s saving their belongings from being damaged. He eyes the scrap of cloth once more before pushing it further away. There’s another burn of intent, mixed this time; one of indifference, scorn embedded in the fabric alongside a plea.

Buried within its weave, there’s a strong belief to be a better person. It’s like an echo of a mentality he had long ago, pulling up nostalgia from the depth of Papyrus’ childhood. He keeps it safe from the water. It’s got monster dust on it, and it’s very likely a momento.

The phone has raised buttons on the side and he tests one. It shows a brief light with a battery warning that it’s at twenty-percent charge. None of the phones that Papyrus has seen sport this feature, so his eyes are drawn to the bright light.

The phone’s background picture is dotted by little squares at the bottom of the screen. It’s one of two brothers, eerily similar to one that he has in his brother’s room upstairs. One that is unmistakably  _ this _ Sans, grin easy, slouched shoulders and eyes twinkling, and the taller skeleton, of course, had to be family.

Had to be…  _ their _ Papyrus. A softer, sportier version. One that lacks a fashionable wardrobe but is still stylish in their own way, Papyrus reasons. They exude inexperience and eptitude both, full of energy. While Papyrus himself is reserved, this strange fun-house mirror copycat shows no remorse in posing for the camera, which is held by Sans.

In the picture, they wear a scarf much akin to the one that’s draped on a chair behind him, similar right down to its colour and drape. Papyrus stills when he realises what the scrap of red fabric found in the hoodie means, whose dust it is that saturates it, and why Sans has it.

…

When all of the pockets are out-turned and bare, including a hidden pocket that held a whistle pop and a miniature whoopie cushion, Papyrus lets the hoodie sink into the cold water, ensuring it’s covered enough to soak. Then he turns to pick up the pieces of discarded, half-absorbed tuna, the scraps of torn curtain and the leftover paste.

It’s methodical. Something to keep him occupied since he can’t sleep yet. As though beckoning him, Papyrus turns in place to look at the monster in his living room. He’s not been quiet, but at the same time he’s sure he hasn’t been loud either. Just normal house noises, he reasons.

They’re awake, or at the very least, their eyes are open. There’s a hazy mote where their eye lights are and there’s a wan movement from under the blanket. Papyrus feels ire well up inside of him when he realises just what they’re attempting.

_ They’re trying to get up. _

He hastily dries his hands on a clean towel and moves over to the skeleton on his couch, glaring down at them. They stop, thankfully, but their expression makes Papyrus freeze. There’s tears brimming their eyes and there’s shaky breaths coming from them. Like they can’t breathe. Like they’re trying so hard not to give in to sobs.

It’s pathetic, but Papyrus understands. His voice stops short, like he’s going to offer something to them, but they’re not his. Fuck his culture; he hates it entirely. He just wants to say to hell with it all and offer Sans all the food they can possibly eat so they can speedily recover. So he doesn’t have to hear and witness Sans trying not to cry out of pain. Out of grief.

He knows what the scrap of red cloth is. He knows the look in their eyes now, how it mirrors his own when Papyrus looks back to them, all heartache and loneliness.

“REST,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice level, “IT’S ONLY BEEN AN HOUR.”

“sorry t’disappoint, b.. but i’m kinda hurting right now,” they stutter through pained breaths. “i got that you don’t like sharing, but… c’mon, buddy. pal. friend,” their grin gets meeker, imploring in its own way, “you got any breakfast?”

It takes Papyrus so off guard that he’s left gaping at them for close to a full minute. All of the tension leaves the room, replaced with comical incredulity. Sans looks almost perplexed immediately following the rush of embarrassment that floods Papyrus’ cheekbones, so Papyrus whirls in place and stalks to the kitchen to escape.

“FINE. BUT YOU’RE PAYING FOR IT.” He doesn’t dare look back just yet. It’s a perfectly serviceable request, one that skirts the fine line of offering food and playing caregiver. It’s a neat little loophole he should have employed earlier, but that’s of little consequence now.

That, and the coins are very different than the gold pieces normally in circulation. In fact, even if they’re old, their faces are unblemished and stamped perfectly. King Asgore looks regal, but it’s a starkly different version of the beast. It’s a strange thing to be hung up on, but Papyrus has never handled a single piece of gold that hasn’t sported some variety of teeth marks around its border, to test its authenticity.

Speculative, Papyrus tests the side with his fangs out of idle curiosity. The metal gives just a little, the metal soft and warm. It’s real gold, not melted with other lesser metals. Likely, it’s worth more than any coin in his purse now.

He’s too hung up on these stupid differences. Three gold is nothing for the resources he’s already spent on the stranger, but it’s not about the money. Papyrus clutches the three coins in his fist, resolutely strutting back to Sans.

They look apprehensive, their eyes panning from the cramped jangle of coins in Papyrus’ hand, then back to the kitchen, as though piecing things together in their head. Then they inhale sharply, pushing themselves up in a jerky motion. The magic between their joints protests and wanes again.

“LIE DOWN, YOU IDIOT,” Papyrus shrieks in near panic. He’s past hissing at Sans like a terrified kitten, and Sans is being a veritable idiot. Papyrus does little else apart from hovering over them worrying, the suddenness of Sans’ movement forcing him to act, but with them being so injured, he dares not touch them.

“my phone-” Sans cuts off with a pained gulp, “my.. my jacket, i mean, my hoodie-! c’mon, man, d.. don’t tell me you…” The eye lights start to gutter out from their sockets, constricting with pain and desperation, “they’re all i got left. they’re all i got left of him,  _ please-” _

Papyrus’ soul twists with the words. His mind goes to the scrap of red cloth on the counter in the kitchen, beside the busted phone and the handful of rubbish. Carefully, Papyrus pushes a hand on Sans’ good shoulder, the one that isn’t injured, and guides them down. He’s a lot gentler than before, and while he feels at odds to behave so tenderly, he also sees the confusion in Sans’ eyes.

“I EMPTIED THE POCKETS BEFORE I SOAKED YOUR COAT. IT’S ALRIGHT.” It’s little comfort in a world where your not-brother-slash-stranger comes into your town injured, afraid, and looking like they’ve seen a ghost, but it certainly helps under the circumstances.

There’s a hidden demand in their eyes. It’s the feistiest Papyrus has ever seen them, but then again Papyrus has had little time to evaluate their true nature. They’ve only been dying, struggling, taken apart like the most infuriating of puzzles, only to be glued back together again.

Then, after a moment of staring him down, Sans relaxes, like they’re concerned he was lying. Papyrus sees little reason to withhold their belongings, and if they’re really everything that Sans has left, there’s no point in holding said things hostage.

Without any additional comment, Papyrus turns to go back to the kitchen, pocketing the coins and carefully taking up the scrap of red cloth and the cell phone. He brings them back to Sans, whose eyes fall upon the objects like they’re found treasures.

Tears brim their eyes and Sans moves again this time to throw an arm in front of them. Papyrus feels the feeble crack of misfired magic, but there is no venom behind it. Actually, there is very little substance behind it at all, save for the desperation to  _ give it back. _ Since there’s no reason to keep them and Sans is desperate to have them back, Papyrus approaches, his expression guarded, and hands over the pieces.

Both of their hands connect as Papyrus trades the device and cloth scrap, and Sans is careful even when their grip is weak and shaky. A broken noise escapes them and its sound makes Papyrus feel as though he’s encroaching on something painfully private. That’s when Sans finally lets out a stuttered breath, tight and grievous.

They press a button on the device’s side and the shattered glass lights up. Papyrus can tell by every force between them that Sans is trying not to break down when they see the picture in the phone. Papyrus feels something lodge in his false throat, realising that Sans has taken to clutching the scrap of red tight in their fist, with the fierce reminder of a brother who once existed.

Papyrus feels both sympathetic and awkward as Sans tries to keep it together in front of him. It’s too similar to how he acted after his own brother had passed away, wanting to keep every scrap and trinket like it was something sacred. 

He’d learned in the end not to attach sympathies and grief to inanimate objects, as though they represented his brother. Occasionally it would backfire, but Papyrus was getting better at it.

Seeing this Sans, however, the pain’s too fresh. Too raw and too real. They’re strangers, but they were bare before him, emotions running high and without care.

Grief had its price that way. In one moment he was fine; in another, a smaller, seemingly insignificant thing would crumble his resolve and leave his wounds open to be pecked through.

Papyrus didn’t know Sans, but he knew his brother well enough. Despite the frailty, the underlying emotions and tense silence between the two of them, Papyrus felt the pull, the urge to reach over and touch their skull.

It’s enough to break them. He feels the flinch as though he’s struck them instead, the shudder miniscule and wracking throughout the smaller skeleton’s body. It’s a restrained enough sob that it tears through Sans, threatening to shake their injured rib cage and undo all of Papyrus’ hard work.

He lets them be, Papyrus’ touch lingering a little longer than perhaps it needed to be there for. Sans is still chilled; at most it’s been two hours since he’s patched them up, so Papyrus isn’t expecting much in the ways of recovery. But they’re not ice. They refuse to Fall Down.

 

He goes back to the kitchen to fill the kettle and set it to boil, being so severely out of practise and with oats scarce in Snowdin, the prepackaged kind of oatmeal is all he cares for on some days. He’s gotten bad at taking care of himself with no other family, and every day is a struggle.

Papyrus hears the quiet sniffs from the other room, his soul wrenching pitifully with every wet sound. As the water boils, Sans’ soft noises gradually ease to the point where Papyrus feels the need to check on them. He pokes his head out of the kitchen and to the couch, where Sans has turned their face to the back cushion.

They appear to have calmed in the ten minutes it takes for the water to boil. Three gold is what it costs for him to ensure they don’t die. It’s a silly little loophole, but it’s enough for Papyrus to push away treacherously awkward thoughts of possession and loyalty.

When Papyrus comes back to the couch with the prepared instant oatmeal, Sans turns their head to face him again. There’s tear tracks on their face and their eyes are half open, exhausted further by everything the world has thrown their way.

It’s an awkward endeavour to explain it, but Papyrus does his best anyway, settling the bowl with the spoon next to Sans’ shoulder so they can grab it when they’re ready. “HERE. FOR YOUR PAYMENT.”

God, is it ever awkward.

They give him a penetrating look, nothing but judgement and confusion in one whole encompassing grimace. “so now you’re playing shopkeeper. y’know i’m not gonna attack you.”

They already sound so defeated. They don’t start on the food.

Papyrus coughs as though to clear his throat. “LISTEN, I DON’T KNOW HOW THINGS ARE DONE WHEREVER YOU COME FROM, BUT THIS IS JUST HOW IT IS. NO, I DON’T BELIEVE YOU WOULD BE FOOLISH ENOUGH TO ATTACK ME IN MY OWN HOME, WHERE I AM OFFERING YOU SHELTER, FOOD AND PROTECTION UNTIL YOU HEAL. HOWEVER, I WOULD BE A FOOL IF I DID NOT KEEP UP SOME VARIANCE OF DEFENSE.”

Sans eyes the bowl next to their shoulder and carefully moves their uninjured left arm to grab it and settle it onto the blanket covering their rib cage. The oatmeal is piping hot, smelling vaguely of sweet cream and custard. Sans likely knows that it’s too hot for them to eat, so they leave it on their chest to cool while steadily watching Papyrus.

“y’go by papyrus?”

It’s such an odd question that Papyrus stares at them, burying the incredulous look he wants to shoot their way. He also wants to be snarky, but he’s unsure of how they’ll react to such a thing. Their emotions have been all over the place and it’s disarming to experience each one with Sans.

“THE LAST I CHECKED,” he decides carefully.

“and sans-” Papyrus flinches, not prepared to hear it from this Sans like it’s some puzzle to figure out. “-he’s not around?”

The empty feeling returns to Papyrus’ soul, alight with LV that’s as angry as it is sore for being reminded of its owner’s absence. His jaw tightening, it takes a few moments for Papyrus to respond. “HE IS NOT.”

Something knowing passes through Sans’ eyes. Like he’s being examined, dangerous and penetrating, before their expression subtly shifts. It’s as though they’ve gotten all the answers they need despite not asking a thing beyond merely stating the obvious.

Yet there’s been no enquiry. There has been no Check. No prod to his soul, where Papyrus’ LV would stand at 2 and this Sans would ask more. But they don’t say a word. Instead, Sans settles back a little more, wearily eyeing Papyrus as they wait for the oatmeal to cool.

“kinda feel cold.” It’s a measured observance with a tinge of confusion. A softer version of his brother that knew little hardship apart from an attack that narrowly ended their life and a missing brother to boot. “feels like one of those days where i could sit in a tub for hours.”

Papyrus quirks a brow. It’s likely that they don’t know the specifics, then. Either that, or they truly have a death wish. “ARE YOU SUGGESTING THAT DESPITE YELLING YOUR HEART OUT WHILE I PIECED YOU BACK TOGETHER OVER A LITTLE WARM PASTE, YOU’D BE PERFECTLY CONTENT WITH DUSTING IN A TUB?”

It’s Sans’ turn to stare at him incredulously. “what? i didn’t yell.”

“WELL, YOU MOST CERTAINLY TRIED YOUR BEST,” Papyrus mutters wryly, pivoting his body so he can sit down on the coffee table.

“what does me yelling have to do about me dusting in your tub? does that mean you got spikes in there or something?”

He’s got their interest, at least. Papyrus studies Sans for a moment, still clenching his jaw between bites of conversation. They’re more concentrated on him than their woes, or at least for the moment. It’s a good distraction.

“THAT SEEMS HIGHLY NONPROPRIETARY FOR A STANDARD SANITATION DEVICE. NO. DO YOU HONESTLY NOT KNOW??”

They’re restless, confusion apparent. They don’t know. Papyrus sighs almost theatrically, then concedes; “MONSTERS CLOSE TO OR THAT HAVE FALLEN DOWN LOSE TEMPERATURE AT A RAPID RATE. BEING `WARM` FEELS LIKE YOU’RE BURNING, WHILE `HOT` WOULD DUST YOU IN AN INSTANT. SO PARDON ME FOR NOT THROWING YOU INTO THE BATH IN A BLIND PANIC LIKE I’M SURE THE FOOLISH PEOPLE YOU’RE USED TO DO.”

Sans grimaces. “people don’t fall down that often, though. and usually it’s only from old age, and they’re at peace-”

Papyrus’ scoff cuts them off. It’s involuntary and he’s aware that it’s rude, as Sans bristles a little defensively. Idly, they play with the spoon in the bowl, quiet  _ clinks _ sounding off in the chilly silence between them.

“actually, now that you say it, i kinda remember something.” Another pause as they thoughtfully stare at the cooling oatmeal. “accidents happen sometimes.”

“ACCIDENTS,” Papyrus repeats, suspicious of the word.

Sans gives a halfhearted shrug, only to abort half way. They grimace, flinching and exacerbating the movement by grabbing at their injured clavicle. It then creates a chain reaction, where Papyrus has to physically stop them from clutching at their chest in agony.

“WATCH YOURSELF, AND DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK,” Papyrus hisses quietly. “JUST RELAX.”

It takes them a few minutes to calm down, tears of pain pricking at their eyes and their chest heaving feebly. They’re grasping at Papyrus’ arms, and their legs are drawn up to kick as best as they’re able to.

Miraculously, the oatmeal hasn’t spilled, so Papyrus takes it and starts to idly stir it in order for it to cool faster. He thinks that perhaps he should’ve just added cold water to it. Chances are Sans won’t taste a thing, and it’s the nutrition they need, not the flavour.

When Sans relaxes back onto the couch, trembling slightly through exertion, they exhale a shaky breath. “accidents, like… like that, i guess. where someone goes someplace they shouldn’t’ve, or get injured, and… a family member panics because they’re cold. so people tend to just try to warm up fallen monsters the ol’ fashioned way and give `em a bath or put a hot blanket on them, and…” They peter off, realisation dawning on them. “yeah, we don’t know too much about dying, y’know.”

Papyrus thinks that’s a load of crock, but he doesn’t say as much. He doesn’t want to kick them while they’re down, and telling them that distraught family members unintentionally killing their Fallen brethren was nothing to worry about clashes so much with his personal morals that Papyrus feels a little ill.

He doesn’t say as much, though.

“SO I SEE,” is all that comes out. It’s so jaded and weary that Sans sends him a look, concern evident despite them being strangers. Papyrus feels like it’s some kind of cosmic joke that Sans is pretending that they care about him, but it’s a soothing gesture at the same time. He wishes he wasn’t so desperate for companionship, when they’ll likely leave him the moment they’re healed.

“EAT YOUR OATMEAL, IDIOT.”

Sans gives him an awkward grin despite the insult, sadness in their eyes when their gaze settles on the oatmeal. Carefully, they pick up the spoon, their grin wavering as they portion off a little to eat. It’s easier to absorb if the food goes directly into their body, so they raise the spoon to their mouth and take a bite.

There’s a soft sound that makes Papyrus’ soul jitter, threatening to revert back to being disheartened. It’s easier for Papyrus to leave Sans be as they eat, so he retreats back to the kitchen to give them space. He takes a look behind him once more and Sans has their gaze downcast to the bowl, frozen on the spot and still trembling.

There’s little candy dinosaur eggs in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning(s) for this chapter: grieving over dead family members, references to genocide route, lack of personal privacy, talk of death and dying and what happens to Fallen monsters in both universes
> 
> * [Dinosaur egg oatmeal](https://undertaleqa.tumblr.com/post/150442381178/papyrus-whats-your-favorite-food).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus unwittingly stumbles into protection mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning(s) in the end notes

“so what did you lose?”

It’s been the most trying couple of days that Papyrus has had to endure in recent years. Sans appears one for idle chitchat despite his grunts and chilly silence, hoping they’d get the hint that he isn’t interested one way or another.

Despite the few glances he’s taken of them, Papyrus has slowly begun to bring his guard back up again. He doesn’t volunteer information as he had before, but the way this Sans asks things reminds him not to be too trusting. They could very well be attempting to gather information despite their injuries.

Occasionally, perhaps when they think that he doesn’t notice, Papyrus sees a wistful tear hastily wiped away, followed by a flinch because they’ve moved too quickly.

The wound is healing poorly, though he wouldn’t know it with how much the stranger talks. Their voice is a little raspier than before, eye lights moted and soft, unfocused. It’s likely that they’ve suffered magical interference or illness thanks to their injuries. It takes longer to heal when there’s a disruption like that, but Papyrus isn’t a healer, and nor can he afford to bring one here - monetarily and reputationally. There’s another twinge of regret, but Papyrus stifles it. He stifles the feeling like every other intrusion upon his soul since bringing the weak monster under his roof.

It’s not that he regrets it…

It’s just that he wasn’t prepared for the repercussions. Of what it meant for a stranger that wears his brother’s face, asking questions that trigger his manic episodes when the LV burns particularly bright.

Then, such as now, when the stranger looks at him, surveying Papyrus like he’s about to crack again. But Papyrus feels tired. He’s been exhausted for the past four days, running on high nerves and very little sleep. He’s cried more than he has in years past, not that he’ll admit it to anyone other than the darkness of his room. There are dark red bruises under his eyes, looking like they’re carved into the bone. His eye lights are unnaturally sharp and his body tenses at every noise, no matter how slight.

Undyne has seen how he is the last time he went out to work, and promptly pushed him to take a leave. It’s humiliating when all Papyrus wants is a distraction, but instead he’s under house arrest until he’s stable. Undyne is convinced it’s an adverse effect of his LV and even hinted the upcoming anniversary of his brother’s death. Papyrus hates that he didn’t even tell her that wasn’t it, but nor did he tell her about the stranger in their midst. Perhaps he feels, somewhere deep inside, that he needs a break. Either that, or he feels that Sans is a negligible enough threat that they aren’t worth bringing up one way or another.

It goes against the very core of his character so much that it burns. He grits his teeth, silently chewing on the thought. He hasn’t replied to the Sans’ enquiry. He refuses to, mainly because he doesn’t know what the stranger is referring to. Papyrus doesn’t want to think it’s anything to do with his brother, nor anything in particular. So Papyrus does what he does best in these circumstances and doesn’t give an inch.

What he does do is glare at Sans for all he’s worth, despising every pathetic bone in their body.

Papyrus realises that he’s beginning to detest them with every hour and day that passes. They’re weak. They’re chatty. They keep asking for food, making his resolve shatter like a cheap cup. He keeps referring to them as  _ Sans, _ and god, it hurts every time, even if he’s never spoken the name out loud. Papyrus continues to flip back and forth between wanting them safe and wanting to drive a sharp bone between their ribs to end it all.

It’s the LV.

 

Papyrus runs his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes for what’s probably been the hundredth time that afternoon. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to hear Sans’ voice, gravelly and soft, trying to sound genuinely concerned when he accidentally lets his guard drop.

“hey, are you home, sharps-”

“JUST… SHUT THE FUCK UP, FOR ONCE,” Papyrus cuts them off. He’s tired of hearing the incessant nicknames. He’s never heard his name from them apart from the one time, when it was brokenly dropped like a brick during their first encounter. Anything else has been ‘buddy’, or ‘pal’, or ‘muchacho’. The stranger’s apparent disregard of his rank and level of violence is grating on his already jarred psyche.

Mercifully, they do as they’re told, though it’s not without veiled chagrin. Papyrus isn’t used to the disappointment hidden in that familiar face, so while he falters, it’s guarded and unsure. There’s no reason for him to brutally pick apart emotions so clean that any vultures would have nothing left to scavenge. He feels as though he’s let Sans down, brutally murdered something that has taken so long to soften.

Softening means death in this world. It’s kill or be killed. No amount of commiseration will change that. People will notice after the LV-related ‘absence’ and he’ll have a difficult time slamming up the walls of defense yet again.

Papyrus exhales. It’s long, forced out, but he offers an olive branch; “MY BROTHER.”

Sans’ eyes slowly flit from the ceiling to his face and Papyrus finds it difficult to rationalise just why he’d offered up that bit of information.

Something in Sans’ eyes changes a little. Their expression shifts, morphed from a pained remembrance to something that looks like resignation. Of failure.

“me too.”

Papyrus almost breathes life into the accusation  _ ‘it was because of me’, _ but he abstains. Instead, what he does is glance at the stranger’s phone on the coffee table, remembering the photograph. They’ve been looking at it on occasion, and with a dawning dread that something was coming, like a slow but real detonation. Papyrus is on guard. He certainly hopes that the phone didn’t also double as an explosive.

A restrained sound tears his attention away from the device, and oh, how his soul  _ pinches _ when he realises that Sans’ tears have returned. They reach a hand over their face, restraining a broken sob as though it claws through the very core of them. It fights its way up from their breastbone, breaking free as a shuddering series of pained gasps, the movement far too much for their injured state.

He can tell Sans is fighting off everything they have, desperate not to cave in front of him. They’re wrung tight, exhausted and perhaps needing consolation. The back of Papyrus’ mind scathes that he’s found a poor taste in therapists, but he stays quiet. Maybe he needs this catharsis as much as Sans does.

Papyrus lets them have their moment in silence, his soul doing a commiserating tear of its own, until he hears, slightly garbled and frustrated, “he’s dead b’cause of  _ me!” _

The two of them share that, though if Sans is the opposite of what his brother was, Papyrus has doubts about that. Sans has no LV. Their statistics are the worst he’s ever seen, and the guard has even Checked infants and children before. Even for…  _ his _ Sans, who was at LV 6 when he’d passed, had 12 HP. Lower than most, but… he had also been ill more often.

Papyrus stays quiet, trapped in his head. He’s learned to bury things deep inside in order to regain control of his emotions. He’s cool and collected on the outside, which is apparently what this Sans needs. It’s an odd feeling to be a pillar of support when he’s had no one this entire time. No one to show his weakness to. No one to share his pain.

Just.

Alone.

As he’s always been.

It’s bittersweet, in a way.

“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT THAT.” It just feels too easy to say. After so much crawling silence between them - with Papyrus spouting off any aggression as he sees fit - it appears that Sans isn’t expecting comfort. They snivel, their voice catching on a question that they can’t quite voice. The pain from their injuries is to blame, no doubt.

It’s awkward to have their eyes on him, hazy and weepy with anguish, so Papyrus shifts uncomfortably where he stands. He tries to alleviate the pressure between his ribs, rubbing idly at his ribs through his shirt, where he’s sure his brother had felt in the same spot-

Papyrus clears his head with a sharp head shake and watches Sans with a steady eye. They’re shaking.

_ They’re weak. _

Again, the LV flares, beckoning him to take the kill. It would be  _ so easy. _ It would be  _ mercy, _ wouldn’t it? Like another chance to put Sans out of his misery, but by his own decision.

Papyrus powers through it, pushing the angry snake of twisted kindness back until it coils tightly in his soul. He’s no less rattled for it, but Papyrus keeps his hands steady.

Sans looks at him like they’ve seen the telltale signs before. They draw in shuddering breaths to calm down, their free hand gripping at the blanket lying over top of them.

“i-” It’s a valiant effort for an attempt at conversation. Papyrus is impressed when they try again, “it was a human. paps-” They flinch and Papyrus shares it, as though the old nickname drives a shock into his soul just by hearing it.  _ “-my _ papyrus… he thought he could help them. thought `e could make `em change. knew they could be better. like t.. they’re a friend in trouble that he had t’help, he-”

_ Failed? _

He didn’t make it. The human took the other Papyrus’ life. It’s very clear that Sans blames themself for his brother’s failure. Takes responsibility, most likely.

Papyrus recalls his counterpart’s odd appearance from when he’d seen it in the phone. All spunk and no substance, likely - and then he feels an injustice like none other, that his first impression of them is jarringly false. It thunders down to his core, a universal resolution that takes him by the shoulders and shakes.

_ Everyone can be a good person if they just try. _

_ Everyone can be… if they… try. _

_ Everyone will… if… try. _

_ Just… try. I know y’can do it. _

_ ‘…Y’ready? On three-’ _

Papyrus jumps out of that headspace quicker than cold water. Sans has calmed down a little, though they’re still wiping the fresh tears from their face. Papyrus’ soul pinches again, that unruly disgusted feeling for this Sans taking the blame for their sibling’s murder.

“IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.”

Sans blinks at him, the very picture of someone about to break under pressure again. They draw in a rattling breath, just on the verge of a whimper, “if i’d been there-”

Papyrus can’t believe he’s going to do this, but, “IF YOU HAD BEEN THERE, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN A LIABILITY. HE WOULD HAVE NEEDED TO PROTECT BOTH YOU AND HIMSELF. IT’D BE USELESS FOR THE TWO OF YOU TO BE DEAD, EVEN IF HE  _ DID _ BELIEVE HE COULD SUCCEED. HE FOUGHT-”

A small, bitter smile stretches across their face and Papyrus stops. A chill travels down his spine when they next speak.

“he didn’t fight.” There are fresh tears now, “you get it, right? you gotta believe in your family, even if he’s the only barrier between an empty town and a human’s next thrill with a penchant for violence. the human didn’t care, they didn-” Sans stops to gasp, raw pain in their voice as Papyrus looks on. “i didn’t believe he could do it. i didn’t believe but i let him do it anyway and i failed to protect him because of it!”

It’s a lot of emotional baggage, a veritable meltdown that’s been building in under a short period of time, by Papyrus’ estimate. There’s no reliable measurement for the amount of pain Sans has suffered through. He didn’t know the exact repercussions of how Sans met their near-end, though he suspects the alleged human has something to do with it.

It strikes him as odder still that Sans is alive after an altercation with the human. Perhaps that’s why their wound burns with malice and they’re so… broken.

Sans harbours a lot of anguish and regret - enough to break a soul. It’s enough to poison their body. Monsters didn’t last long with that sentimentality and resolution broken; despite how twisted up the world was, everyone was made of hope, love and compassion. They just showed it in peculiar ways.

This monster, though… shows it in the roughest way possible. As though Sans is adamant on punishing themself over what they perceive to be their fault.

Maybe that’s why they aren’t healing.

“I’M SORRY,” Papyrus decides to say. He doesn’t know if it’s an empty gesture or not, but he reaches forward from where he’s standing and rests his hand on Sans’ uninjured shoulder.

Sans tenses as though Papyrus has stabbed them instead and makes a noise just as wounded. It splices through his crumbling resolve to steel himself against further breakdowns, but Papyrus manages to get a hold of himself. The gesture isn’t shrugged off and he isn’t struck. Sans allows him to touch them.

“I BELIEVE THAT HE HAD DONE WHAT HE THOUGHT WAS RIGHT. THERE’S POWER BEHIND THAT KIND OF MENTALITY. HE-” Papyrus chooses his words very carefully, as ‘the End’ echoes in his skull from Sans’ Check, so he’d better not say something idiotic. “HE WAS ADMIRABLY STRONG-WILLED. I CAN TELL. I FEEL IT IN MY BONES.”

Sans cracks despite the falling tears and suddenly laughs, moving to wipe at their face again with a pained noise.

“y’sound just like `im.”

Papyrus’ soul grows fond for a moment, as the slurred way Sans speaks reminds him of simpler times when he only had to worry about procuring medicine. It takes everything Papyrus has not to break down along with them.

Quietly, he admits the same; “THE SAME GOES FOR YOU.”

Sans sniffs, a watery sound in the quiet living room. Their voice makes a heart-wrenching noise. “can’t believe m’still falling apart after three weeks,” they mutter to themself, and Papyrus feels the admission drop like a lead pipe, loud and sudden and clamouring in his head.

It’s no wonder they’re so broken, so unhappy, so…  _ hopeless. _

Papyrus repeats the last three weeks in his head, trying to connect everything that’s happened on his end before this Sans has shown up. There was an attempted arson at one side of Waterfall, a trade ring that was expunged in Snowdin, paperwork, and… not much else. 

Not much else, apart from discovering Sans, alone in the woods, trapped on the spot when Papyrus had spotted them. A lot can happen in a week, but three weeks is nothing when one is grieving. Three weeks can drag on as much as they can pass in an instant. Papyrus doesn’t even remember the first few months following his brother’s death.

He gives their shoulder a reassuring squeeze and the look Sans gives him is pathetic at best. There’s still that veiled defenselessness, but it’s buried by raw emotion at the moment.

 

That’s when the entire house just  _ shakes _ with the force of a blow. The building isn’t old, but rubble shakes from the ceiling in a dirty  _ (dusty) _ cloud. Sans immediately goes quiet, but Papyrus can feel how tense they are. There’s even the miniature shudder that goes through them, a muted hiss of pain and a slight movement to look at him.

Papyrus summons his attacks without hesitating. They’re precise enough that they don’t marr the carpet, but he’s suddenly on the defensive. It’s unclear just who the fuck is assaulting the front door like a battering ram, but he’ll decline to look out the window, else he earn another scarred eye. He’s almost certain it’s the captain. Who else would check up on him?

A thread of panic weaves into his soul when he looks down to Sans, who’s wild-eyed and alarmed. The house shakes again and without putting much thought into it, Papyrus hurls a speared bone construct into the door. It lands wedged into the door, harpooned into the frame with enough force that it comes out the other side. He can feel the little gust of chilly air. His aim earns him a familiar cackling laugh.

There’s not enough time to go upstairs to his room to hide them. His brother’s room is completely out of the question; Papyrus doesn’t have the mental fortitude to power through that right now. Somewhere close by is the only option and he hates it.

Sans’ magic manifests, but Papyrus is still holding onto them. They don’t move, their injuries too grave to attempt it. So Papyrus does the unthinkable and steps around to their side, thankful for their fearful silence. It would’ve been awkward to explain any screams to his uninvited visitor.

What he does hear is the clench of chattering teeth when he lifts them. Even his brother wasn’t so light. It’s worrying, but he has little time to entertain any more thoughts before Undyne starts to tear the door off the hinges. Papyrus ignores Sans’ muted grunts of agony as he cradles them near, protective, and he takes a few tentative strides into the messy living room.

There’s nowhere to hide here. At best, he’ll have to try the kitchen. Wordlessly, Papyrus hardens his expression when Sans holds onto him, feeling their bones jitter and their breath catch like it’s hooked on every loose crack. Their grip is weak. Papyrus honestly doesn’t understand how they were able to  _ walk _ or even console him before.

But now, they’re close.

They’re close and Papyrus doesn’t know how to process how it feels. It’s like he’s missed contact with another person for so long that suddenly he feels the need to lock up every desire to take them in as his own.

There’s that desire to hold them close again and Papyrus recalls their words from before;  _ ‘you kind of look like you need a hug.’ _ Heat scalds his face in self-admonition.

He’s an idiot and he’s quickly becoming uncomfortable with how often he’s dropping his guard.

At worst, he’s getting ahead of himself. If Undyne sees them, Sans is as good as dead. Papyrus’ brother is dead. His dust was spread long ago. Maybe Undyne was there in the aftermath - Papyrus doesn’t remember, but if she saw this Sans  _ now- _

It’s too much to consider all at once. Papyrus jolts when he realises that Sans is staring at him, their eye lights weak and small, just barely there. They’re frightened but they trust him enough to not ask stupid questions. They’re holding onto his shirt like he’ll protect them from harm’s way.

_ They already trust him. _

Either that, or they’re desperate.

Papyrus bowls into the kitchen, eyes searching for a suitable place. He can’t be too rough with Sans; stuffing them into the fridge in a hurry will likely hurt them, the available storage notwithstanding. There’s only a cupboard that would have enough space and Papyrus hurries, carefully pressing their body against his chest as he stoops to wrestle the one side of the door free from where it’s jammed. He makes a mental note to fix it later.

If there’s a later.

“BE QUIET,” Papyrus hisses when Sans can’t mute a groan of pain. He’d offer painkillers if he had them at this point, but Papyrus is low on everything except adrenaline. Sans shoots him an injured look but the grimace on their face undercuts some of the acidity.

Papyrus shoves a pot further in towards the back to make more room, half distracted when he notices a shrapnel of blue out of the corner of his eye. He regards Sans, who’s panting with great effort, the delicate glow of cyan burning between their joints fading to bare pastel again. A bad sign.

They manifest an attack and it’s no bigger than his ulna, but Sans’ magical reserves are too bare to keep it conjured. It’s clear they’re dependent solely on him; they’re useless when it comes to self-defense. Papyrus hopes it’s only because they’re recovering and it doesn’t have anything to do with their lacklustre stats.

The weak and half-formed attack drops to the floor and shatters like glass, leaving a smudge of blue motes in its wake.

“STAY HERE,” Papyrus growls and carefully extricates the smaller monster from himself, Sans’ fingers feebly tangled in his shirt as though they don’t want to let go. “DON’T YOU DARE BREATHE A WORD, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU HEAR, IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE.”

Papyrus awkwardly and hurriedly pulls them into the cupboard instead of pushing with no great amount of effort to ensure they’re unharmed. He leads their arms and legs inside limb by limb, his own hands shaking when Papyrus hears the cracking of wood in the living room. He catches the grave look Sans sends his way before he abruptly closes the door, lost and demanding, but there’s no words. They just rattle intermittently, clearly afraid. It’s the most emotion that he’s seen from Sans in one day.

With a lingering look and a pinch of hope that it’s enough, Papyrus gives the hinges a forceful push so the cupboard door doesn’t click open when Undyne stomps through his home, shaking the building to its foundation.

He thinks about Sans’ position in the cupboard as he gets to his feet, curled in on themselves and muting pained gasps. The interaction must be swift, otherwise Sans’ injuries will bleed anew. He rushes to the living room, hoping they can hold out while he entertains the captain.

He believes in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning(s) for this chapter: flashback to implied assisted suicide, both guys being hard themselves over sibling deaths, more stages of grief, panic!
> 
> Sorry this took me awhile to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undyne offers help and offloads from a raid, until she notices something off about Papyrus’ kitchen. Papyrus opens a door to a room that he hasn’t entered in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning(s) in the end notes

When Papyrus makes his way back to the door, he’s distracted. His mind is solely on Sans, who’s curled up and breathing harshly under the cupboards like a scared mouse. After a cursory look down to his clothes, Papyrus confirms that there’s no blood left on him during their transport.

His eyes sweep over the living room one last time, a knot in his chest when he realises just how close he came to forgetting the old green blanket on the couch and the pillow that had been wedged behind Sans’ skull.

Papyrus grabs them and instead of finding a place to put them, he hooks both under his arm and stalks to the door. If he pretends that he was so rudely awakened from a nap, perhaps Undyne will be likely to keep the visit short. It’s not uncommon during his LV flares that he wants to shut the world out in the only way he can.

He swings the door open after a glance outside from the skewed peephole, modified so it isn’t visible from the other side. Undyne seems braced for whatever out-lash that’s coming to her, but Papyrus only glowers at her, the heat in his head smouldering alongside the stifled panic of her sudden visit.

Her gaze is scrupulous as her single eye flicks down to the pillow and blanket in his arm like an obvious stage prop.

“CAPTAIN,” Papyrus says, stiffly formal.

“Commander,” she acknowledges, just the same. Her eye lingers on the pillow for a little longer than Papyrus is strictly comfortable with, then the slits in her throat open, drawing in the air of his home. “We’ve liberated stores from a facility in North End. Horrible stuff, takes up far too much inventory space.”

It’s not an offering. It’s not a gesture that she’s worried for him, trapped in his house all alone while the LV Papyrus’ brother left him with steadily eats away at his brain. She doesn’t think him weak nor does she pity him, but in her mind no one should needlessly endure such hardships. Of course, if Undyne lets on that she’s concerned at all, she’d be mocked for as long as it took for the point of her spear to find the offender’s throat.

Nonetheless, Papyrus squints at her with distaste - a ready excuse to refuse, to not be so bidden to accept her veiled help. He doesn’t need her aid as much as she’s offering it. It’s a mutual sidestep around offering and accepting.

As with most disingenuous things, he loathes it.

Still, provisions are provisions even if they’re low quality or downright inedible. Most things tend to be that way, settling on his tongue like ash and tasting just as bad. He thinks to the hidden monster in his kitchen at 1 HP, keeping quiet as best as they’re able.

“IF YOU MUST,” Papyrus concedes, his eyes hanging on anything in the distance to make sure no one is planning anything outside. He doesn’t turn his back to her, he’d be a fool to earn himself another scar in plain view, but she sends him a glower right back. It’s like two barracudas standing off against each other until he steps back to allow her into his home.

Then, she slams the door behind her, exhaling theatrically and with it, the tension diffuses from her shoulders.

“Alright, lemme off-load. Were you honestly napping?” As she speaks, Undyne hauls a brick of ‘nutritional supplement’ out from her inventory and strolls out of the foyer and into the living room, casually tossing it in the air and catching it with one hand. “Shit, you were. Good thing too, `cause you look like shit!”

Papyrus has never been more glad for the fact he looks like utter garbage than he does at that moment. “THANK YOU.”

It’s dry and facetious, but it earns him a friendly glare anyway. There’s something viscerally pleasing about mocking one another that other people just don’t see. Which is good, since Papyrus’ appreciation for snark has ramped up in recent years. It’s easier to forget old wounds when Undyne’s around.

She doesn’t lower her guard around him often, if at all. Papyrus reciprocates by tossing the pillow at her. In his house, there’s no need to pretend honours. They’re just friends in their own company.

Her voice does carry, though. Papyrus wonders if there are other Undynes, just as there are other Sanses and other Papyruses. He doesn’t give in to the flinch he feels crawl up his spine when she starts towards the kitchen, but he does follow her footsteps with his eyes when she continues.

“This junk is, uh… junky? I know you might not be interested, but I know there are certain cravings I get when,” she gestures vaguely, for some reason dodging the word ‘LV’ like it’s poison, “you know.”

Papyrus hangs at the door jamb before he realises what he’s still carrying like a goddamned security blanket. His fingertips dig into the fabric, which is still slightly chilled by the monster whom was comforted by it earlier. Papyrus doesn’t look at the cupboard, but he enters the kitchen after tossing the throw to the side.

“DO I.” There’s an edge to his voice like he hasn’t talked in days. Really, it’s just from the way his false throat aches after repressing himself, as though it physically hurts to keep everything from pouring out. It’s actually doing wonders to prove his lie. He relaxes a little. Her face doesn’t soften, but there’s something about the way Undyne looks at him that makes his soul twist, reminded of the way she looked at him after his brother’s passing. “I FIGURED.”

Without another word, Undyne unloads her inventory, which is scores larger than his own, onto the kitchen counters and table. Since her station allows for stacked slots, the ‘garbage’ she’s brought to store at Papyrus’ place actually overwhelms his small kitchen. From instant noodles, potatoes, calcium-rich mineral tablets, some overdried bars and staple items… it isn’t anything he’s expecting.

They aren’t actually scavenged at all. In fact, Papyrus knows with a threatening throb in his chest that the label on one of the packages is ‘sugar’. When he picks up one at random that lacks any identifiers, it smells of rich coffee. Further into the pile, there’s even several small cases of commodities. First aid supplies.

He doesn’t really know how to process it all. The universe mocks him with supplies needed to help the monster stuck under the counter, while it also threatens their very existence by bringing the most ruthless one he knows into his home. Undyne’s miraculously not beaten the countertop at all during her visit, which means scores more than Papyrus will ever reveal.

“It’s garbage, but still useful. Obviously anything confiscated goes to the guard. As their captain, it falls under my jurisdiction to divvy it amongst the troops. Otherwise some scum might get some hair brained ideas,” Undyne says without scruple. “That, and we’ll get loads better use out of it.”

One last sack is unloaded from her inventory. Negligibly, she tosses up a barely-bruised apple into the air where Papyrus is standing and doesn’t bother to catch it as she says, “Check for poison.”

The reason is a ruse but Papyrus plays along. It’s been awhile since apples have made their way to Snowdin. He can tell right away that there is no intent infused into the apple and it’s laughable to think that Undyne couldn’t do it herself. It’s a lie between them.

_ Here’s an apple. It’s not poison and I’m not telling you to eat it, but I’m not expecting it back. _

It’s a lot of dancing around the subject, but it works for them. The first bite is a little mealy, as Papyrus intentionally goes for the bruise, but the second is sweeter and less dry. His mind goes to the small monster in his cupboards and he strains his hearing to listen for them.

Not a peep.

Good. If Sans keeps that way, they’ll stay alive.

“Good, you’re not dead,” Undyne continues as though the whole awkward scenario didn’t take place. She makes a point not to look up from the haul she’s got surrounding them. Without missing a beat, she continues, “Saves me from training another.”

Papyrus can’t help the wry smirk that threatens the corners of his mouth. He makes an effort to stifle it, more prepared when Undyne tosses a firmer tomato, some hard loaves of bread and a small wheel of hard cheese. She grunts her distaste at the wedge of unidentified dried aquatic creature and thrusts it up at him from her place on the floor.

She’s more sick by what it is than how it smells, or maybe it’s a combination of both. Papyrus, regardless, takes it from her to seclude in a plastic container and wedge it into some unknown corner of his cupboards.

His kitchen hasn’t been this bounteous in awhile. Papyrus recalls a few weeks before his brother had chosen to… stop. He was a lot less moody. In fact, Papyrus thought that he was getting better, not worse. Perhaps he was foolish in thinking he was enough to keep his brother there.

He must’ve been silent for longer than he thought. His body is wire-tight with tension, it easing up just as Undyne rests her hand on his shoulder. Then he inhales a long breath. He’s still holding the container.

Her silence speaks volumes. Papyrus really doesn’t have the strength to socialise, even with friends. Even with someone who knows how to distract him, he really feels out of place.

Maybe he can blame it on the LV, but Papyrus knows that he’s pushing his luck with that excuse. Now that Sans is out of sight, the burning in his marrow isn’t quite as bad. It’s back to its low reverberation, humming just under the surface like a pulse. Like it’s always been.

“You’re really out of it,” Undyne remarks with astounding observation. “You’re not usually this…” She flounders for a less than offensive term, but settles on “broken”, with unfortunate bluntness.

Papyrus flinches. “How kind,” he remarks, drier than dust. He sees her grimace and raises for one of his own.

“I mean it. Your last flare-up was not even a month ago. This isn’t how it works, Papyrus,” she says in earnest, though it’s with the restraint she knows conveys sincerity. It’s an odd fit on her, but Papyrus knows that she means well enough. “Is it… y’know--because…?”

The question lingers between them, thick and familiar. Papyrus wonders if Sans is eavesdropping, or merely trying to keep conscious. At the same time, he tries to keep the twinge of grief from his voice when he speaks.

_ Is it because it’s close to the date of your brother’s death? _

“NO.” He thinks about it for a moment, then sets the container with the unknown fish inside onto the counter. As though to illustrate his frustration, he grabs a couple of burlap sacks and his nasal aperture fills with the scent of mild tea. He hesitates for a blinding moment, every scent a shock to his starved system. “YES.”

Undyne sighs like it’s the worst aggravation, but Papyrus manages not to be offended. It’s mostly her issue, though he can’t help but feel responsible for her stress lately. Turf wars have become increasingly common and with one of her best commanders out of commission for LV related issues, she’s stretched thin.

Papyrus turns one of the burlap bags over in his hands, refusing to look at her for once. It’s a vulnerable move, but when her punch lands, it doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does. He bites back the prickle of pain that radiates up and into his shoulder, but her wry little half-smile is enough to calm most of the guilt in his soul.

“IT’S-”

Undyne studies him for a moment, single eye piercing. She’s intense to look at, and although Papyrus has had plenty of time to study her expressions, from manic to pleased and distraught and angry, nothing hurts more than when she fights off her urge to beat away the bad nights that accompany his flare-ups.

“It’s not the same without him,” she agrees, her voice low.

Papyrus both admires her and hates how her voice is so steady when his false throat feels like a vice is clamping down on it. He manages to bite back the wheezing little hiccough that threatens to pass his teeth in lieu of a breath, his body tense again. He wrestles himself, battling the little echoes of grief that threaten to spill over him in waves.

“He’d be proud of you, y’know,” Undyne says, as though passing idle conversation. She doesn’t look at him. Papyrus is glad for it, as he isn’t sure if he can withstand this if she continues to reminisce about his brother this way. “He-”

“PLEASE,” Papyrus almost chokes out, “I’M NOT READY.”

Undyne does stop. The tension is thick in the air and Papyrus avoids looking to her face, but her body screams restraint. There’s an odd way her voice lilts when she scoffs, but Papyrus doesn’t pay attention.

“Right. What was I thinking.”

There’s no accusation behind it. In fact, the way Undyne shrugs it off is well-practised and neat, like it’s no skin off her back. Her laugh is as fake as the entire situation, and Papyrus holds on by his fingertips.

But he knows she also lost someone that day. It’s not fair to her, but he isn’t ready to face condolences just yet. He can’t bring himself to accept words of pity, encouragement or anger from anyone regarding his brother’s end. Maybe it’s unfair to Undyne. Perhaps it’s even a little cruel, but it’s been this way for awhile.

Papyrus won’t allow himself to heal. He won’t accept what he did was an act of mercy.

That forces his soul to squeeze, as though out of spite. He doesn’t rub at the ache, but he places the tea into the cupboard next to the fridge, his movements forced and hollow. He isn’t sure what Undyne did in the minutes between, but she begins to help him sort through and put away the overstock.

_ They’re groceries, in reality. _

First aid supplies, groceries, and staples. He knows Undyne has his back. He works under her, but their friendship makes them equals. Hotly, Papyrus drags a hand over his weary face.

“I APOLOGISE.” And he means it.

Undyne’s voice is a little lower, as though she’s taking care not to be so explosive, nor to be overheard by anyone outside. She shoulders a hefty sack of potatoes like it’s nothing, gesturing with her other hand.

“It’s fine.”

Papyrus feels that guilty pinch again and anger flares up. “UNDYNE-”

“No, don’t. I mean it. I get it. But you can’t continue to beat yourself up over it, y’know? It’ll eat away at your insides,” she lectures, though seems to realise what she said when Papyrus arches a brow. She groans and slaps her forehead. “You know what I fucking mean.”

“CLEARLY NOT, AS YOU CAN SEE MY ENTIRE LACK OF INSIDES.”

“Boy, you get pedantic without your nap,” she drawls, still lugging the potatoes on one shoulder like a champ. “Where do the tubers go.”

Without really thinking, Papyrus gestures vaguely to the counter, “LOWER CUPBOARDS.”

There’s a shift in the air. He feels the tension immediately, like all the air is sucked out of him. Papyrus’ eyes dart from Undyne to the cupboard when she approaches where Sans is hidden, and  _ he’s done it--condemned them to death. _

“I always just stick mine in the fridge,” Undyne shrugs and swings the sack over her shoulder, though takes considerate care not to slam the vegetables onto the counter. She’s learned food lasts longer when you don’t pummel it until just before consumption. Papyrus doesn’t think Sans could sustain a jolt like that. Papyrus feels his soul try to kick and push him to interrupt, clawing at him like feral rodents.

He freezes.

He sees the smudge of pastel blue on the floor - the remnants of the attack dispelled by his charge mere minutes ago. It’s not magic seen in this world, at least not by anyone he’d encountered. Undyne is viciously suspicious of rebels, who hide in Snowdin and try to make it to the outskirts to escape, but conveniently turns a blind eye to a transgression here and there.

Papyrus’ words lodge in his false throat. His soul feels like it’s about to burst like an infected sore, and he can’t move. He can’t even step forward when Undyne crouches down and pulls open the stuck door like it’s made of tissue paper.

He swears his soul left his body as he remains stuck in abject horror. She sighs heavily, though pauses and looks over her shoulder. “What.”

Papyrus can’t find the words. Does she not see them? Or has Sans already turned to dust, and Undyne’s seen enough dead monsters that she’s not even phased by it?

He starts to tremble. He can see a small smear of blood in the corner just beyond one of the pots. There’s no dust. If Sans was there, they’d be in view. Undyne would’ve  _ seen them, _ but they’re not there-

He stares at the space like it’s trying to suck him in. Then something inside of him cracks.

That’s it.

He’s losing his goddamn mind.

Papyrus knew something was wrong when his brother came back from the dead. He’d been imagining it from the start, hadn’t he? Is he really seeing the smear of blood? The faint dusting of cyan magic on the kitchen tile beside the cupboard? He’d broken himself apart, bore his weaknesses to no one, lay in grief and mourning for days while the LV eats at his brain like a parasite.

He must be losing it, since Undyne’s in front of him now, clearly concerned by his silence. There’s too much of a similarity between then and now. Then, when she’d found him alone in his home, a pile of dust in front of him. If Papyrus has any awareness at all at that moment, it’s dissociative and disconnected, his breaths taking too long to draw and coming in short, tangled gasps.

“Easy,” she says, that hidden scrap of motherly instinct kicking in. Her face twists up when Undyne sees Papyrus’ haunted expression, like the last moments of life are replaying in the poor skeleton’s eyes.

The catharsis was a lie. The acceptance he’d felt from the stranger, the small victory of an embrace, of the small fragile trust between the two of them, all fabricated from his addled, breaking mind. He shudders a breath, unable to stop from staring at the spot. His false throat’s  parched, sore from restraining the way his voice aches with despair.

They’re gone.

They were never there.

The blood is a lie. The lost supplies were things Papyrus never had in the first place. He never stayed up all night, piecing together Sans’ shattered rib cage like a glass antique he wanted to keep forever. The cyan magic is…

It’s… still there. Papyrus fixates on it like a lost soul. His breath shudders out, wanting nothing more than to dive into the cupboard to search for them. Despite how insane the thought is, there’s a lingering hope inside that he’s not as mad as he feels. That somehow the other,  _ softer _ Sans is still alive. That they existed. That everything he experienced wasn’t for naught.

He doesn’t realise that he’s crying until Undyne’s arms are crushing him. It makes his chest hurt, ribs creaking in protest. The raw emotion of it all makes Papyrus gasp, the vice on his neck finally allowing him to breathe, though it’s wet and restrained.

Undyne’s grip tightens, though it’s not one of her wrestling moves, nor the way she constricts her arms to pop a rib or two when she’s feisty. This hold is more out of desperation, and she’s holding on with such assuredness that her grip’s a little shaky.

Papyrus doesn’t register her voice when she speaks, the words just glide uselessly over him, but he knows they’re supposed to be encouraging and quiet. Undyne isn’t often quiet, only a handful of times. This time is too close to her first interactions with him when Papyrus was fresh with LV.

He shudders out a breath. He isn’t sure how long it’s been, but he supposes it’s been long enough if Undyne is fine to let him go. His arms feel a little bruised, but the pain is something to focus on when everything else feels fake. Papyrus doesn’t know if he can trust himself anymore, so he doesn’t speak.

“I’m gonna stay, alright?” Undyne says, and tries to give him an encouraging grin, all shark teeth and flaring gills an unfamiliar mask over her own pain. “Help you pack. Clean up some. Make it feel less like…” She stops, considering. It’s difficult for her, but she settles on something else entirely. Something softer.

_ Make it feel like a home again. _

Papyrus doesn’t think he heard it right, but he nods anyway, still staring at the cupboard like it wronged him. He’s not sure, but he thinks that perhaps his soul is trying to protect him from something by denying its existence.

He feels it prickle down the side, too vulnerable to speak, too painful to think about.

Undyne guides him down to one of the chairs at the kitchen table and forces him to sit. His knees buckle without his permission, his eyes frozen to the spot. No doubt Undyne must be concerned, but he can’t pull his gaze. If he stares at it, maybe Sans will come back…

What he wants is to get up and touch the motes of magic left behind in their wake, to confirm that they were real after all. He knows that it’s a desperate move and when Papyrus starts to get up, Undyne keeps her hands on his shoulders to keep him seated.

She tries something different.

“At ease, soldier.”

It’s familiar. It’s strong. It’s enough to snap Papyrus’ attention with such abruptness he thinks he got whiplash. There’s too much openness in his eyes for what’s happening. And he can’t tell her.

_ It’s not the LV. _

He thinks she knows.

“I mean it, Pap,” Undyne adds a little more brusquely, like it’s taking her all not to break down right along with him. “These things take time.”

Somehow, he finds the courage to nod. It’s minute and feels stiff, but it’s there and it’s an agreement. There’s a bare offer behind all the circumstance that Papyrus latches onto for all he’s worth.

And Undyne speaks it out loud, forbidden. “You can take leave.”

His next exhale is purely to let out the tension. His eyes hurt, stinging in their sockets. His throat is dry, so tight it burns. His soul does that stupid coiling squeeze every time he shoves at a memory too broken to fully recall.

And Sans.

_ His Sans. _

His brother walks at his side, gives him that sly grin of his even though Sans feels like a waste of resources most days. He’d voiced it often enough, scolded Papyrus when he’d take care of him, but Papyrus… would always be there for him. He’d take care of him until Sans broke into honesty and fell asleep in his arms, rasping breaths his low HP subjected him to.

 

Undyne bumps his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. It’s not abrupt, but it still stings. He blinks blearily up at her from his position on the chair and she grins at him, like old times, like hey, it’s ok that this happened.

Like it’s easy to forget, and to cheer him up, probably.

He swallows, the first time in awhile. It’s raw. Everything feels like a fresh wound, torn open for the world to see. And he doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

Half of him wants the apparition to come back.

Undyne doesn’t offer him any more kind words. What she does is gently scuffs the side of his skull with her knuckles, abrading the scar by his eye as she pulls her hand away. Papyrus’ soul twists with the veiled comfort, but he feels worse for it.

He decides to hold his silence, a comfort that’s been his safekeeping for years gone by.

 

Set aside, Papyrus calms as Undyne goes back to the sack of potatoes quickly discarded by the cupboard filled with pots and pans. The vegetables litter the floor and she begins to gather them and stuff them back where they belong.

As she does so, her hand pauses. Her eye fixates on a spot near a few potatoes, glaring up at her with eyes of their own. She squints, leaning forward, her gills flaring again as she draws in the air close to the cupboard.

She detects something, though it’s so strange that she can’t put her finger on it. She looks back to Papyrus, whose gaze is somewhere between the floor and her boot, unfocused and bare. It hurts to look at him, though she wonders just what Papyrus saw to make him disconnect so violently from the moment. He dissociates. They all do at some point, but he’s getting worse and worse every time the LV flares up. She’s not sure the LV helps Papyrus in this case. It might’ve been more cruelty than heirloom to gift Papyrus with EXP upon Sans’ death.

She casts away those thoughts when she sees something else on the floor. A small mote of magic, just barely decaying before it disappears for good. She doesn’t get a good look at it, though it can only mean one thing.

An intruder.

It’s evident when she’s on the prowl. Her gills flare a little more, drawing in the scent, the taste and the sharpness of the air. At times, the vibration changes. Her entire body goes slick and serpentine, poised with her magic to form anything from harpoons to darts with deadly accuracy.

Perhaps Papyrus senses the way she holds herself, or maybe he just isn’t sure what’s happening. Regardless, if there is an intruder come to take advantage of Papyrus’ compromised state, it falls under Undyne’s duty as his captain - no, his  _ family _ \- to protect him.

Eradicate the threat.

The smudge of magic on the floor tile was enough for her to glean a fraction of intent; mostly of fear, though of something else she can’t touch upon. Undyne gets to her feet after eyeing the small trail of blood on one panel of the cupboard’s wall, surveying the kitchen as though it’d just morphed into an unfamiliar obstacle course.

With her silence, Papyrus intently watches her. There’s pain where his normally calculative and wary glower is, as though he’s been made to watch something he doesn’t care for. It’s too open, so Undyne glances away before she can see anything more.

She instead goes on the hunt for the intruder. As much as the house has fallen into disarray, it’s too much for a single person to manage by themself, let alone when it was the two brothers together. Suffice to say, there are plenty of places to hide. She starts with the obvious choice and goes into the living room, leaving Papyrus in the kitchen to sort out the supply situation or just relax for a moment, whichever is more convenient for him.

Undyne tends to stomp when she moves, especially when she suspects something is in hiding. She pulls couches from their corners, inspects under the Slob Guy reclining chair, and even goes for the fireplace and sticks her head into the shaft leading upwards.

Nothing, but that doesn’t mean her sense of smell is off. Undyne can still detect the signature faint in the air, like a monster fading away. She realises that Papyrus might be harbouring a refugee, though in his current state, it’s unlikely. Papyrus was never good at disobeying orders, even in the beginning.

As she’s righting furniture from her search, Papyrus enters the room like a ghost. His eye lights are a little unfocused, like he’s tried for so long to stop tears that they’ve affected how he sees now. Undyne inhales sharply as though to belt at him,  _ you idiot, you let someone in- _

But Papyrus gives her the kicked puppy look. Well, not entirely, as he’s never had the look down since he was a kid, but he’s wounded and exhausted, and probably just needs to sleep. If Undyne had any suppressants, she’d offer to take the edge off his current predicament. But she doesn’t, so she merely squares her shoulders, preparing to give him an order.

Then her eye settles on something else. Another drop of blood, this time beside the couch that she’d lifted not even two minutes earlier. Odd, considering it hadn’t been there before. She descends upon it before the motes of magic littered around it disappear, but she’s too late. The magic wanes, the trail gone.

Ok, so they’re injured but they move fast, which means that they can get the jump on her. Good to know. Papyrus seems a little agitated when she quickly moves around, though it’s a little more intense when she stays quiet in her hunt as well.

She glides over to the closet wedged into the stairs from below, the space overfull of useless appliances Sans used to tinker with in order to garner extra cash. There’s also a bunch of bedding and comforters haphazardly folded into a pile at one side. Monsters who were Falling Down tended to get cold, so she knows it’s remnants from when Papyrus cared for Sans in their final days together.

She feels something in there. Her magic crackles, icy neon green tinged with a bleed of rustic iron. It weeps with the heat of her LV, seeking out something unseen. If she strains her hearing, she can convince herself that the shudder she feels in the air belongs to a monster in hiding, not the house settling.

With Undyne’s magic summoned, Papyrus no doubt has concerns. He follows her, his eyes hollow and black as pitch and his expression grim. There’s no reading that expression, no discernible words beyond the utter pain he’s in.

With that look, it’s enough for Undyne to hesitate. There’s a subtle shift nearby, like someone had just took a swipe at her and narrowingly missed. Her eye flares with subdued rage as she twists around with the disturbance in the air, Undyne’s glare set on the staircase above them.

She throws a look to Papyrus, whose eye lights have returned and flick down from where she’d been looking. Something seems to click, as the two of them lock gazes and Undyne lurches up the stairs two steps at a time.

 

Surprisingly, Papyrus finds the words. “UNDYNE, WAIT-”

She stamps upwards, threatening the integrity of the staircase with every footfall. Panic must touch his voice, as Papyrus all but scrambles up after her, the ridges under his eyes gaunt and etched in.

He feels ill. Very ill. As though she sees something that’s not there.

Like it’s something he shouldn’t hope for.

That it’s something that shouldn’t be alive.

He sees another drop of blood, then another, just outside of his door. Undyne stops to send a warning glare his way, but he’s just as lost and agitated as she is, though that might be a lie if he assesses that later.

Chances are she’s warning whatever she’s chasing with her stomping. But this time, Papyrus’ soul feels as though it drops clear out of his chest when she summons eight more attacks, all vicious and broiling with rage, and hurls them into his bedroom with a scream.

“UNDYNE!!”

He’s not particularly shocked. In fact, Papyrus isn’t sure what to feel after everything that’s happened. Somewhere where his empathy lies is a big chasm, and in that chasm is a void that sucks out any understanding or acceptance past ‘she’s lost her goddamn mind, too’.

It doesn’t occur to him that perhaps he should move a bit faster behind her, or even to attempt to gauge the wetness or chilliness of the blood left behind on the carpet. He just watches in mild horror as Undyne stamps past him, nearly shoving him aside in her haste. The LV in her eye burns brightly, misting in a trail behind her like light refracting from a camera lens.

He knows she won’t rest until she’s caught whatever she’s looking for. Not without a good excuse. And it could be that whatever she’s looking for might turn out to be the other Sans, wounded and low on magic and-

Papyrus gulps, suddenly overcome with the urge to protect the notion of such a person. His soul twists, a familiar ache he’s grown accustomed to recently. He remembers the offer of condolences, their pain, their grief, how much they tried despite having given up.

Undyne makes for his brother’s old room.

It’s an old room, one that’s been locked for as long as he can remember. He hasn’t been inside for ages, boarded up with the agony of a brother long-gone but not forgotten.

For a heart-stopping moment, Undyne readies a spear, raising it with one arm until it grows in number, ready to crush the portal leading into the only other hiding space.

Papyrus can’t even yell this time. Instead, he makes a dash for the door and throws himself in front of it as the spear comes down. He wrenches his eyes shut and twists his head to the side to hopefully stave off the years of pain another head injury will give him.

What flashes before his eyes in that moment is Undyne breaking into the door years ago, early morning, to find him sitting with a shroud of dust half-covering his knees. His voice locks away in his throat, tears pricking at his eyes. He’s shaking, trembling, soft wheezing little gasps threatening to take away the dust with their movements.

_ He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone, he’s really gone- _

_ He’s alone and he doesn’t know what to do. _

_ His entire body burns and there’s a new ache in his soul where his brother used to be. _

_ It’s not going to heal. _

_ He’s not going to be able to forget this pain. _

Papyrus remembers the sick way his brother’s dust coated his fingers like fine powder, sticking to him as though to never let go. He remembers the strangled way Sans stifled back the grunt of pain when he’d stabbed him and how much Papyrus’ hands shook as the third attempt finally allowed his brother to crumble away.

He remembers being so stunned that he was found three days later, still covered in his brother’s funeral, overtaken by grief. Overtaken by the LV burning in his body, adding a constant reminder to that fact he took his own brother’s life.

 

“I CAN’T,” he gasps out, his voice raw and unsteady that it threatens to crack under such emotion. “I CAN’T, I CAN’T-”

“Papyrus, there’s someone, just let me IN!!” Undyne’s spear is levelled at his head, just a fraction of an inch away from extending the scar over his right eye into a full crown.

Papyrus extends his arms to block the way, hands grasping against the door jamb to ensure she can’t force her way inside. His voice shakes, breaths quaking on every inhale.

“UNDYNE, PLEASE.” He doesn’t want her in there. He doesn’t care if the other Sans is in there, Papyrus just doesn’t want to enter a place that’s essentially been converted in his head to a shrine to his brother. “I,” he stops, hopes his hesitation works for instead of against him, “I HAVEN’T BEEN IN THERE SINCE.”

It’s something of a lie, but he’s so adamant that it strikes Undyne like a blow. Her spear’s anger slows, silently burning at a lower decibel as she withdraws it. She studies him, still close, as though everything that had happened in the span of twenty minutes changed everything.

“Papyrus-”

His voice feels thick, like if the next plea doesn’t work, he doesn’t know what else he can tell her. “RESPECT MY HOME,” he wavers, unable to help it. “RESPECT HIS MEMORY.”

She shudders out a breath, then scoffs, obviously blinking back emotion. Papyrus looks her full in the face and she can’t help but glance away, uncomfortable with its raw openness. He doesn’t relax and keeps his arms outreached to protect the room.

She glares at him, pinging a Check on him just to make sure he’s alright. It would’ve been a stupid way to die, and a terrible way to lose a trusted friend and soldier.

> **[ PAPYRUS   18 ATK 24 DEF** **  
> *****PAPYRUS BLOCKS THE WAY   ]**

She huffs out a quiet laugh, her expression softening, though beyond it is understanding and frustration welded into one ugly ball of agitation. Papyrus turns his head back to face her dead on, though she shakes her head in disbelief and flicks her gaze past his head.

She sighs. “I hope you’re not hiding what I think you’re hiding.”

Papyrus narrows his eyes, all too aware of the pain in his skull, the fierce beating of his temples from the headache he’s garnered from all this. “IT’S FANG,” he replies, not curtly but with a familiar way that tells Undyne she’s pushing her luck. “IF YOU’VE HARMED HER IN ANY WAY-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Undyne mutters, though she backs off. Not because his threat has any actual weight behind it, but because the waves of desperation that’s coming off from Papyrus is enough to stifle.

There’s a tense silence between them. Papyrus doesn’t move, ready to take a tackle to the ribs if he must. Undyne surveys him with enough clout to move mountains, but ultimately gives him an affectionate punch to the shoulder. There’s more weight behind it and it hurts to the point where quite a few HP chips away, but Papyrus knows it’s for his own good.

A punishment for insubordination, if anything.

She doesn’t lecture. She knows he’ll argue or freeze up, or just plain glower at her. But Papyrus is thankful that she didn’t break down the door, even though his room is in shambles. It’s going to take forever to clean it up to be able to sleep in again.

When she goes, Papyrus lingers at the door to his brother’s room. When she’s gone, he stands at the door, turned around and staring at the door like it’s the meaning to life and death.

 

What if Sans - the  _ other _ Sans - is inside?

 

A long time passes. An hour? Maybe ten minutes. It’s difficult to say.

The door knob burns in his hand. There’s no intent or protection magic around the room, but it hurts all the same. Papyrus grits his teeth, knowing in his soul, deep down, that he needs to see for himself. He needs to verify if it’s actually  _ them _ or a figment his grief-torn heart fabricated to get him through the rest of his life.

The door is unlocked. There’s no reason to lock it.

No one lives with him. The room is a tomb, filled with dust of long years and the soft scent of a familiar family member long gone. He misses the smell of comfort, of just staying in the room with Sans as he read or battled fevers.

Papyrus’ eyes settle on the old spot from a long time ago. The stain is gone now, the decay of magic dissipated. Monster blood doesn’t linger for more than a week, at most. Magic stays for less time. Dust settles into something thinner, until time drags it away.

It’s been long enough. There’s no trace of his brother left.

He feels somewhat detached, like visiting a grave site with stones made for those whose loved ones went missing, who never got to spread their dust. He’s alone, lonely and afraid of what’ll happen in the future. He doesn’t quite know how to process his emotions beyond the emotional fallout of everything that’s happened.

It feels jarring to break out of it, his eyes lingering on a small spatter of blood by the end of his brother’s bed, still unmade. Papyrus wonders if he touches the spot exposed in the sheets, that he’ll feel his brother there and his ribs tremble when he coughs.

He hears a small noise, close to a whimper but not quite. He looks around the soft lighting of the room and the warmth that spreads in from the hall, his eyes falling on a pair of glowing eyes from the corner. Papyrus gives in to a tentative response, a broken noise half mangled in his raw throat.

“THERE YOU ARE…”

He isn’t sure just whom he’s speaking to. Wedged into the corner between the wall and the bed frame lies the familiar form, weak pastel magic glowing intermittently between wheezes that sound more like kitten whimpers than actual breaths. Papyrus approaches slowly as not to startle them and sees the faint haze of dying eye lights settle on him.

Papyrus swallows the feeling he gets when he realises that Sans isn’t a figment of his imagination. His soul squeezes again when another wheezy sound comes from the other monster, though it’s quite evident that it’s not coming from Sans.

Sans’ grin upturns and they release a soft breath, just on the verge of fainting. “y’should see… your face…” they mutter, their voice barely there between weak gasps. “thought you’d… have kittens…”

Papyrus isn’t quite sure how to feel about that, though it’s evident Sans has pushed themself to the limit. He can detect the scent of magical fallout, and if Sans doesn’t have something to eat or get healed immediately, they won’t last long. They’re not strong, but they certainly proved their valour and intuitiveness, although Papyrus isn’t quite sure how they managed to  dodge Undyne repeatedly.

They laugh, a dry half-chuckle as though they’re amused at their own joke. As they ease back, breath rattling, Papyrus hears another sound.

It’s not a wheeze.

It’s a very soft mewl, and it’s not coming from Sans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning(s) for this chapter: discussion of family death, flashbacks to assisted suicide, grief, dissociation, questioning sanity, Undyne hunting down Sans, boundary compromise
> 
> There's no excuse as to why I didn't work on this except that... I didn't work on it. :U Enjoy this extra long chapter ♥


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